Our Darker Purpose
by Greenway
Summary: The war is won but at a terrible cost. The destruction left in the Reaper's wake is not merely a physical, tangible thing, but an echo in the hearts of all those that have suffered too long and sacrificed too much. For Commander Shepard, the way back home is long, dark and wrought with terror.
1. Prologue

Admiral Steven Hackett considered himself a pragmatic man. It was because of this he avoided both being blinded by false hope and drowning in the deepest throes of despair. This approach had shaped his military career, from his time as a cadet until this fateful day. And yet it was only now, as he watched Earth smoulder, thick plumes of smoke and ash lifting into the atmosphere, that he truly appreciated his ability to stare down the almighty and remain calm.

The battle was won, they kept telling each other, together with desperate smiles and hearty pats on the back, but as he looked out upon that victory from Alliance HQ – what was left of it, at least – he realised the terrible price they had paid. And knowing that he would pay it again, and do so gladly, did not help lift that quiet and yet decidedly deep melancholy from his heart. A period of mourning, even if unacknowledged, was necessary in order to heal. That started now, a process he imagined would take every bit as long as the brick by brick rebuild of the Earth and the Galaxy in which it lived.

It was as he watched the streets fill up with humans and aliens alike that he was reminded of the alliances forged in the fires of war, and the old grudges now buried under Reaper husks. The Alliance had done everything in its power to prepare and his own efforts had been tireless, and yet he was humbled still by the endeavour of Commander William Shepard, a man who worked himself to the bone, who bled and bled again for humanity, and who sacrificed everything just to give them hope enough to go on fighting.

Shepard's fate remained unknown but he had lived long enough to fire the catalyst, activate the Crucible and, by means far beyond Hackett's comprehension, destroy the Reapers. This was not the only consequence, however. The Mass Relays had been rendered non-functional, the Geth had likewise fallen silent, and there were reports from throughout fleet of malfunctioning VIs. They would need their alliances now more than ever as they faced the bleak uncertainty that lay ahead.

As the Sun set over London the crowd below continued to swell, recognisable by the faint glow surrounding them, a combination of torches, candlelight and omni-tool. They were strangers, erstwhile adversaries in some cases, but they were united. And not merely by their shared suffering, or by having faced down their own imminent demise and lived to tell the tale, but by a man who had long lived in the shadows, watching over them like a silent guardian, and only now, in their hour of need, had he come forward as the saviour they longed for and delivered them from evil.

When the crowd began to chant Shepard's name, Hackett felt both immensely proud, coming close to tears, and sickened by the idea that the young man who had embodied hope for so long would be left by fate to perish at the conclusion of a war that _he_, as much as any other being, had helped win. He felt then suddenly weak, as if months and months of living on the run, of sleep-deprivation and malnutrition, had in one fell swoop caught up to him. He pressed a steadying hand against the glass and then his forehead too, looking down upon the people of the Galaxy with a sorrowful stare.

Though he acknowledged it was not his fault, and indeed that in any case he had little power over the way in which events had transpired, he nevertheless needed to say the word, even if only to himself.

_Sorry._

This lingering guilt was, in Hackett's experience, common amongst high-ranking military personnel. It was not a bad thing, but rather proof of a conscience. It was exorcised indirectly, by sharing word of a soldier's passing to his next of kin and, failing that, his loved ones. Yet not only was this private confession made difficult by the thousands of people below chanting the man's name, but Hackett had watched the Normandy retreat – directed it to do so, in fact – and any chance to tell Shepard's closest friends of the honour it was to serve alongside such a brave and selfless man had tragically disappeared with them.

In a somewhat symbolic gesture, Hackett had shut off his omni-tool. Not since he first heard the word _Reaper_ had he allowed himself such a respite, and he thought perhaps that while he mourned, and while his mind was troubled, he might finally find sleep at the end of the long, dark tunnel.

It was then that he heard footsteps thundering down the hall, causing him to start and for his hand to move across his body, stopping just short of his weapon. Old habits. Hackett turned and saw a young man sprinting along the corridor in his direction. He was breathless and what's more he was bruised and battered, but the devil snapping at his heels couldn't have found a more steely resolve.

The cadet stopped barely a metre in front of him and immediately bent over in exhaustion, his hands on his knees as desperately tried to force air into his lungs. When this failed to achieve any immediate return he continued anyway, attempting to speak but only managing to force out yet more gasps for air. This lasted a moment, Hackett's brow furrowing as he wondered what on Earth had possessed the young man, when suddenly the cadet stood up straight, punched a command into his omni-tool and watched in a sort of awed silence as a video-feed was projected before their eyes.

There was a body in the rubble wrapped in a broken and charred suit of armour. Evidentially it was a military man on account of the dog tags around his neck, but it was only as the camera panned higher that realisation finally dawned and Hackett's mouth seemed to fall open, his eyes growing wide, as he looked upon a face he thought he would perhaps never see again. Only, this was the limit of Hackett's reaction and there was no epiphany to be found in his stunned silence. It was not until the _truly_ miraculous occurred, and from beneath that pile of burning rubble a feeble and solitary breath filled Shepard's lungs, that he found his reaction.

Hackett's gaze lifted suddenly as he met the eyes of the young cadet. He wanted to say something, anything, to make this moment seem real, but the young man, previously mute, beat him to the punch.

"He's alive."


	2. I: After the Storm

"Wake up, Shepard."

His conscious mind was not lost, merely confused.

Awareness came in pulses, like flashes of light passing before his eyes. There were the voices, strange and disembodied, talking near him, about him, but never to him. Then there was the stench of death and disinfectant, an abundance of the latter to wash away the former. And, finally, there were the _machines_, the electronic nervous system, pumping and probing him just to maintain his every miniscule, flickering sign of life. And there _were_ signs, he could feel them; he could feel the faint beating of his heart, the deep ache buried in his bones, and his every feeble breath as it drew desperately close to the surface.

However, he did not live here in this hospital room. It was too far; it was a fight that he could for the moment not hope to win. So when he heard that voice imploring him to wake he knew instinctively it was neither real nor whispered in his ear. It was something else. Something profound. His eyes opened, he drew a fiery breath into his lungs, and there before him, flanked by bright white light and wearing a smile, was the closest thing he ever had to a father.

"Anderson?"

"Good to see you're still with us," he said in a familiar, light-hearted tone. Anderson held out his hand and lifted Shepard up off the ground. "You had us worried there."

Shepard found his feet but he was shaky, for the time being held up only by the arm of Captain Anderson as it entwined with his. The pain was immense and it was everywhere. His back was broken, his shoulders dislocated and arms hanging limp; there was nothing left of his legs but the bare necessities, able to keep him upright and not much else. _This_ he could not feel – not really – but he could sense it.

A fall. He remembered a fall. But it can't have been. It was simply not possible.

"What happened, Anderson?" he choked out, hand lifting gingerly to his throat. The voice was barely his own. "The last thing I remember…"

"You made a choice. You destroyed the Citadel," Anderson replied, finishing the thought. "And the Reapers."

"Yes."

"You're a survivor, Shepard. I don't know _how_, but I'll be damned if you're not the toughest son of a bitch I've ever met."

Shepard laughed but wished immediately that he hadn't. His throat was on fire, his lungs full of ash – every breath was a paradox, both a sign of life, and of hope, as well as a reminder of just how close he was to death's door.

He peered upwards and met his commanding officer's gaze. He looked exactly as he had prior to the battle to take back Earth. Of course, Shepard had watched him die. He had mourned for a moment before the galaxy called to him again with its desperate and unrelenting pleas for help. There was no God – there can't have been in the face of such misery and reckless hate. And yet what was this? Heaven?

"Where am I?" he asked, holding the man's gaze.

"You're in the tunnel," Anderson replied then continued somewhat amusedly at Shepard's perplexed look. "You're in the tunnel, clawing your way out. There's still some fight left in you, son. I know it. You know it. _They_ know it. But you're a long, long way from home."

"You're dead, aren't you?" Shepard asked, seeking to confirm what he already knew.

"Yes," he responded, lips curling into a smile, "quite dead. And you're quite unconscious."

"Then where are we?" he continued, hands lifting to either side of his face to suppress the pain.

"Nowhere you haven't been before, Shepard," Anderson offered reassuringly. "A fight takes on many different forms – on the battlefield, on the desk of politicians, in the hearts of troubled young men. But this is different. Your heart and your body are broken and yet, somehow, your mind endures. That's all I am, Shepard; that's all any of this is," he added, indicating with his outstretched arms the infinite expanse of bright white light surrounding them. If Shepard _really _listened, he could hear an echo. "Your mind. Call it a coping mechanism if you will, but you don't have an ounce of quit left in you. I'm here to see you don't forget that."

"But," Shepard began to reply, struggling desperately to gather his bearings. "How can that be true? If this is my mind, if this is not _real_, then… the pain?" he asked imploringly. "I've never felt such pain."

Anderson sighed. "I never said it wasn't real, Shepard," he replied sorrowfully. "Whether conscious or not, your body still perceives pain as before. This is not a break from your troubles. Your mind is in just as much danger as your body only it's fighting. _You're_ fighting."

"So you're not really Captain Anderson?"

"I am Captain Anderson as you remember him – his personality, his essence." Anderson lifted a hand and placed it on Shepard's shoulder. "His pride in you. Just because I am not skin and bone and grey matter, that doesn't mean I'm any less real."

Gradually Shepard began to perceive more merely than his pain. His memory started feeding him information at an alarming rate, trying to piece together a much larger puzzle. The Citadel, the Star Child, the choice, the fall, but with every recollection came words that were not his own, something profound, something that hurt more than any physical ailment.

_Come back to me._

And thus came the first sliver of clarity. Shepard, Tali and Garrus were running towards the conduit, a desperate and seemingly futile attempt to reach their only hope of salvation. And then Harbinger arrived and wrought destruction upon them. He remembered Tali's blood. He remembered those once bright eyes fading behind her mask. There was only one thing he could do and he did it, but to hear the heartbreak in her voice, and he heard it still, it destroyed him.

_Come back to me._

"You did the right thing," Anderson whispered, placing his arm around Shepard's shoulder as the younger of the two men looked to be on the verge of tears. "You saved her life."

Shepard swallowed, eyes wide. "She's alive?"

Anderson's expression remained neutral. "_You_ believe so. Otherwise I daresay it would be her talking to you right now and not me."

"Is that hope?" he asked, fingers digging into the corners of his eyes. "Or a fool's hope?"

Anderson's expression turned solemn. "When it's all said and done, Shepard, is there really a difference?"

Shepard sucked in a deep breath, almost appreciative of the associated pain as it seemed to provide some minor distraction from the vivid images flashing before his eyes. "No," he replied, "I guess not."

And then the light faded, and he returned once more to the darkness.

OOO

Time passed like water through his fingers. His consciousness rejected the real world. The beeping of machines, the hushed voices of the doctors and nurses keeping him alive, they faded just as soon as they crept in. It was frightening. Never had he felt so alone, like such a puppet – a man without control of his destiny was merely a slave. Perhaps he did not toil but he was nonetheless ruled by the whims of others. This was not the future he promised.

Eventually the white light found him again, only this time there was no friendly face to help pick him up. The pain remained, always fluctuating as different medications flooded his system, but never fading away and never allowing him to forget where he was and why.

He manoeuvred forward cautiously, paranoid that that this was just some trick. He longed for the days where his greatest enemies were the ghosts in his past, or the Batarian slavers running rampant through the Terminus Systems. Now he shouldered a burden no man was meant to bear and faced adversaries few could fathom – a machine race that fancied themselves the embodiment of the galactic apocalypse, and a deranged AI with a God complex. As it flooded back to him he realised none of it made sense. It was a farce. A cruel practical joke.

The machines had gained the ability to convince themselves of their own righteous intent but their understanding of the galaxy, of life itself, was deeply flawed. They were a self-fulfilling prophecy and that, to a machine, must have seemed like poetry in motion, but their very nature left them unable to comprehend the horrors they wrought upon the galaxy. Harvesting organics to protect and preserve those same creatures all for the good of the galaxy they inhabited; it was purpose to which only a cold-hearted machine could aspire.

Where had it gone wrong? Neither EDI nor Legion saw the world in such a way. They were not organic but they _lived_ – they lived and they learned and they sought meaning where previously none existed. There existed proof everywhere that synthetic and organic life could co-exist, no place more so than on Rannoch, and, yet, the Star Child had placed in his hand a loaded gun and asked him where he would like to point it. There was no right or wrong choice because such power belonged not to a single being, man _or_ machine, but to the people.

Shepard came to a stop as the white light changed, flickering and faltering like impulses. He reached out a hand and met resistance, a solid surface similarly coloured but the light fluctuated. He pushed and the space before him swung open much like a door, revealing an infinite darkness that soon enveloped him.

Colour bled into the darkness until he found clarity within. Immediately he recognised his surroundings. He was on the original Normandy, the SR-1. It was late, dark, deathly quiet and utterly still. Just outside the mess hall, at the foot of a spiralling staircase, he saw himself seated, his omni-tool's vid console activated, his eyes narrowed as he stared intently at the screen.

Shepard – that was to say, the one _watching _– swallowed suddenly. This was not a dream or a hallucination. This was a memory. And this was not his first trip down memory lane.

The elevator made a quiet whooshing sound and the doors swung open. Into the night stepped Tali'Zorah, tiptoeing about the place, around the corner, like cat like grace. At the foot of the stairs she froze, first sensing she was not alone and then seeing it with her own two beautifully bright eyes. Shepard – the one in the memory – simply stared and his stare gave way to a smile.

"Am I in your way, Tali?" he asked, a mischievous glint in the green of his eyes.

"Uh, well – no, of course not!" she replied, louder than was perhaps necessary. "I was just–"

"Relax," he said gently, "this is ship is as much your home as it is mine. What you do in the dead of night," he added, a teasing lilt to his tone, one he _really_ should have thought better of and reined in, "is none of my business."

"Well I was just, uh, heading to the cockpit to check the engine's forward collaboration," she began to ramble, "and I know it's late and that everyone's asleep and that I should be doing this all at a more reasonable hour but I couldn't sleep, you see? And I thought, better to be productive than…"

She trailed off, her voice finally fading when she realised her commanding officer, the first human Spectre and the man known on the extranet as the Lion of Elysium, was not only starring at her, _right_ at her, but he was smiling this funny sort of smile.

Tali shivered, an involuntary gesture she did everything to conceal, even going so far as to do it again, this time faking it – in her mind, which admittedly in that moment was utterly muddled, it was preferable to let him think she had a strange tic than it was to let him know the effect he had on her.

"What?" she asked forcefully, cringing beneath her mask at the shrill sound of her own voice.

Deciding he'd tortured the poor girl enough for one night, he tilted his head and patted the spot next time on the stairs. "Take a seat," he urged her, that smile of his still lingering, and when no response was immediately forthcoming he looked at her and there was a sudden shift about his gaze, like sadness, an imploring in his eyes, "_please."_

As Tali swallowed the lump in her throat, she wondered if all humans could do that with their eyes. Still, despite her discomfort and, what's more, inexplicable attraction to the man, she _trusted_ him. And so she took the seat beside him, leaving just enough room between them on the bottom step to ensure she wasn't forced to develop yet more _tics _to explain away her strange behaviour.

Shepard turned to her then, holding up his arm, the orange glow of his omni-tool's vid display providing what little illumination there was in the small, curved stairwell.

"This is kind of embarrassing, but," he began, smiling sheepishly, "I have about as much technical knowhow as a tree."

The comment caught Tali off-guard, utterly bizarre as it was, but then, in what she would later consider as utterly stupid as what he had said was bizarre, she blurted out, "Really?"

"I know, right?" he replied, shaking his head. "Captain of the most advanced fleet in Alliance space and I almost got into a fight with the electric tin open yesterday. I don't know what it is," he added, brow furrowing as he useless punched commands into his omni-tool, "this thing just won't play nice."

Suddenly realisation dawned on Tali. She wasn't here for her quarterly review or to be reprimanded for breaking some curfew she was as yet unaware of. Rather, he needed her help. Her nervousness, or at least a sizeable portion of it, seemed to wash away.

"Oh," she replied, desperately trying to sound nonchalant, "well, what seems to be the problem?"

Shepard moved his arm so it was hovering just above her lap and in an instant, and as quickly as it dissipated, her nervousness returned full force. His arm was… long, she noted. Long and muscular, with a thick vein running from the near his elbow and then disappearing into his forearm. Though she assured herself that it was just an arm, and that the glowing orange omni-tool wrapped around it ought to have been much more interesting, she couldn't stop staring.

"I'm trying to access the vid-feed from back on Earth," he explained, gazing over her shoulder at his own arm, "but every time I go to open the file the extranet connection freaks out on me. I swear," he added, shaking his head, "if Joker's gone on another Fornax spree and brings down the system, someone is getting court-martialled. Someone with very brittle bones."

Tali _knew_ what Fornax was, only she wished she didn't. Ignorance might have spared her wide-eyes and her hot cheeks. She thought she was going to laugh, albeit nervously, but instead she just sort of exhaled breathlessly, at which point her hand shot upwards to cover her mouthpiece.

"Hey," asked Shepard, his head turning, "you alright?"

"Yeah," she said, betrayed by the whispered sound. "Fine," she quickly added, ignoring his gaze and instead focusing her attention, every last bit of it, on the omni-tool. It might as well have been attached to the aforementioned tree, she kept telling herself. A very small, boring and unattractive tree. A tree with short arms and an ugly smile. A tree she had no interest in whatsoever. A tree that had never even been to Elysium.

"_There!_" she cried out triumphantly, scarcely a few seconds having passed.

"Are you serious?" he asked, shaking his head. "I've been sat here all night trying to get this thing working and you just… what _did_ you do, exactly?"

Tali laughed quietly, and the moment she felt her teeth sink gently into her lip she thanked her weakened immune system for making the visor covering her face a necessity.

"It would only bore you if I explained," she insisted, a newfound confidence about her that, strangely, his presence seemed to encourage. What a difference a moment could make. "It's good to have a little mystery in life."

Shepard watched her, eyeing her curiously, a small smile playing on his lips. "And what if I need help again, hmm?" he asked, that mischievous look about him.

Tali stood and returned his gaze, looking over her shoulder as she made her way up the stairs. Beneath her mask, she was beaming, grinning like an utter idiot… but he didn't need to know that.

"Well," she replied, voice as smooth as silk, "you know where to find me."

The scene faded in the blink of an eye, the winding staircase of the SR-1 replaced by the familiar white light. Into this absence of thought and feeling stepped Mordin Solus, who quickly offered a faint and reverent nod of his head.

"Shepard. Good to see you. Sentimentality an understandable pursuit. Important. Trying times. More still to come."

Shepard laughed despite the pain shredding his abdomen, and he grasped his Salarian friend by the shoulder.

"Surprised to see me?" he asked. "No. Thought not. Captain Anderson a father figure,

biggest shock, welcome sight. Me? More like an uncle. Brother, maybe."

"What you did on Tuchanka…" he began, only to be interrupted.

"Necessary step. Atonement. Not guilt, no, but part of a cycle. Natural order restored. Did what I had to do."

"Someone else could have gotten it wrong?"

Mordin smiled. "Exactly!"

Shepard offered a solemn shake of his head. "And me? Am I done for?" he asked, his voice low. "Is talking to myself a sign that I should let go?"

"No. Certainly not. Genophage happened when it did for a reason. I was there. Did what I had to. Did it again. Reapers, too, happened for a reason. Could have happened a hundred years earlier. Or a hundred years later. No Shepard to offer unheeded warnings. No Shepard to fight. You survived for a reason. Can't give up." He paused, a rarity for a Salarian, and measured Shepard with his gaze. "Won't give up. Came back from the dead once before. By comparison, this just a minor miracle."

"Then why am I lying here?" he said, pointing out the obvious. "Why don't I just _wake up_?"

"Not ready yet," Mordin offered, lifting his chin and tapping it thoughtfully. "Massive trauma. Bones broken. Tissue damaged. Also, emotional suffering, if one believes in such things. When time is right you will wake up. Free to suffer in real world," he added before poking his finger against Shepard's temple, "as well as this one."

"Thanks for the reassurance," he deadpanned, shaking his head.

"Of course," he replied, his eyes flashing mischievously as he offered that strange Salarian smile. "What are uncles for?"

OOO

"_I don't understand, doctor. How did he survive? This much haemorrhaging should have killed him, and that's not even the worst of it."_

Shepard awoke and once more, days later, with this strange distant voice in his ear like the buzzing of a busy little bee, he faced the seemingly infinite stretch of white light. Mordin, or at least a close approximation, had faded just like Anderson as the pain grew too much for him to bear. It was a battle. His mind was trying to endure but appeared to shut down its higher functions when either the pain grew too intense or the medication placed too large a burden on his system, depriving him of lucidity.

What frightened him most was the world outside this _prison_. A world in which he had zero control and little perception. Anything could have been happening. A Reaper induced hallucination. A post-apocalyptic nightmare, with men and women rubbing sticks together and praying to their primitive Gods that they might survive the night. And then, finally, he was confronted by the indisputable truth, that if indeed Tali'Zorah had survived the battle to retake Earth, she wasn't here, she wasn't close. There were many voices he had heard, disembodied, hushed, unable sometimes to penetrate his mind for more than a moment, but never hers. The thought of her out there, as lost and as alone as he was within the confines of his own mind, was a horror worthy of these dark days.

It was, however, the lesser of two evils, the greater of which he was not currently willing to indulge.

"You look troubled, Shepard."

The menagerie of familiar voices that filled his head was growing larger still. Before him stood the backlit figure of Thane Krios, a man he had watched die on the Citadel – a man whose dying wish was a prayer.

"Says the dead man invading my mind," he murmured in response. "I think I have earned the right to carry these troubles with me, Thane."

"Would you like some company?"

"Sure," Shepard replied, laughing bitterly, "why the hell not?"

Thane took a seat on the ground and motioned for Shepard to follow. When he did, Thane took a long, hard look at him.

"You distrust me," said Thane simply. "You believe this to be some kind of deception."

Shepard laughed again. "You know this already. I am saying it only so we can maintain this farce. Several days ago… several months. Maybe years, even. Whatever," he added, rolling his shoulders into a shrug. "I found something out. Something I wasn't ready to hear. How could I be? How could _anyone_ be? To realise that this is all just some game designed by an AI with a God complex and his band of merry machines." He clenched his jaw. "What a fucking joke."

"Would you have preferred something more profound?" asked Thane, and the words might have seemed facetious coming from anyone else. "The threat was no less real and you did what had to be done."

"I fixed a mistake," he spat, "and because of that I have as much blood on my hands as they do. I guess that's what happens when God complex meets Hero complex," he finished disdainfully, his lip curling into a sneer.

"I have never seen you like this before. Your anger is quite remarkable."

Shepard bit down on the inside of his cheek. "As is your grasp of the obvious, Thane."

"You're upset," he offered, quite calmly. "I should leave you."

"You already did," Shepard called out after the drell's retreating form, "on the Citadel. You prayed – you wanted me to be forgiven. _This one's heart is pure but beset by wickedness and contention_." Shepard's head fell as soon as he was alone. His voice barely registered. "You're not wrong there."

He sat there, legs lifted and tucked close to his chest, waiting for something, anything, and staring into space as if perhaps from the bright, white light some answer would emerge. When there was only silence he stood and ventured forward, fearing what he might find but afraid, too, of the silence, and the many dark paths open to him.

Once more he found a panel and minor resistance. He pushed, stepped forward and was enveloped by the darkness.

The colours bled in to reveal Shepard, in bed and fast asleep. Beside him lay Tali'Zorah, unmasked, her envirosuit strewn haphazardly across the floor. Her bright eyes were narrowed, her minds half asleep. There was no mistaking the longing in her gaze or the tenderness of her touch as she gently brushed her fingers across the plane of his forehead, pushing aside his fringe over and over again as if she found some small solace in such a thing.

As he watched this memory draw into focus, Shepard felt his throat grow dry. He remembered this, too. The night before what everyone on the Normandy was calling a suicide mission. But not her. Not Tali. There was such hope about her. It seemed, even then, that as sure as she was that she would one day see Rannoch, the long lost quarian home world, she was sure too that he would be there by her side. Right then and there she decided that one meant nothing without the other. She had told him as much.

"Hey," she breathed gently as he stirred beneath her, but the rhythmic motion of her hand never ceased.

"Hey yourself," came the murmured response, his voice husky with sleep.

"It's like you haven't slept in days," she said quietly, afraid she might break this perfect moment.

"Weeks," he offered, lips twisting into a lazy smile.

There was a long, lingering silence, but which carried no hint of awkwardness. He was at peace, so much so it seemed almost indulgent, and she was lost in deep in thought, troubled not by the moment but by what was bound to follow.

"I'm afraid, Shepard," she said finally, and then she looked at him curiously when he started shaking his head.

"William," he insisted, his voice strangely quiet. He lifted a hand to her face and threaded his long fingers through her hair. "I told you to call me William. Shepard is just a solider. Alliance marine. Cerberus puppet. It's not the same as the mask you wear, I know. But now you have seen who I am underneath it all," his hand trailed across her throat, over her shoulder and along her arm until he held her hand in his and brought it to his lips, "and you're still here."

"_William_," she whispered, sliding her lithe figure along the surface of the bed, still growing accustomed to the feel of soft sheets against her skin, and stopped only when her forehead pressed against his. Her eyes were like stars, bright and unrelenting, drawing his gaze deeper still. "William, I'm afraid. Will you stay with me?"

"Yes," he whispered in response, his knuckles brushing gently across her cheek, "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

As he basked in this recollection, William Shepard wept with such agonising, all-consuming force that when the bright, white light enveloped him he welcomed with open arms the nothingness that followed.

OOO

It seemed a pointless distinction at this stage but nonetheless he wondered _why _it was getting easier. The optimistic outlook said he was healing well, but for a long time now he had felt a deep, consuming paranoia that suggested he was merely adjusting and learning to live in a constant state of pain.

Of course, he realised now what this was all about. The white light, the old friends, the fond memories – it was a coping mechanism created by his subconscious to keep him alive long enough for his sacrifice aboard the Citadel to actually mean something. And perhaps it did help, perhaps without it he would be utterly lost, but that didn't make the wounds run any less deep.

"Shepard-Commander," said a decidedly synthetic voice over his shoulder, "it is good to see you again."

There was silence, Shepard's eyes were shut tight, and when finally he found his voice he could offer just one word. "No."

"I do not understand," the Geth replied, as confused as any synthetic could ever be, "I did not pose a question. Exposition required."

"Not you," Shepard whispered, "not now. I watched you die. I watched as you sacrificed yourself for your people. But that didn't stop me making the choice – from flicking a god's switch with a mortal hand. You were my friend, but I was too selfish to let go."

"You fought for us, Shepard-Commander," Legion stated matter-of-factly, "you made the creators stand down when they sought to destroy us. You allowed us to gain true awareness of the world in which we live. I acknowledge this as noble behaviour."

"And _why_?" he asked, turning for the first time and facing his synthetic companion. "Why did I do that?"

"Because it was the right thing to do."

Shepard laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. "That's what we told ourselves. But you know what, Legion? Every planet we reached was dead. We were just there asking them to make it official. They told me to build an army. They said I was the only one who could do it. I knew in the back of my mind what the truth was, that this war would not be won by conventional means, and yet I gathered the troops. I gathered them like pigs to the slaughter."

"I do not understand the distinction, Shepard-Commander. Please clarify."

"Cannon fodder," he said coldly, running his hand over his face, "and worst of all, it wasn't just the shaky alliances I took with me to Earth. I took my friends. The woman I love. We could have run," he added thoughtfully, his gaze lifting. "We could have gone anywhere."

"An impractical alternative," the Geth pointed out. "The Reapers would have found and harvested you eventually."

There was silence again – telling to an organic but a synthetic could not have guessed at its implications. "I want more time," he whispered, jaw clenched, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "She never asked for anything, Legion, but she asked for that. And I failed her."

Again, Legion displayed his propensity for stating cold, hard facts. "Creator Tali'Zorah could not possibly blame you for this outcome. There are too many variables."

"I know what happens next," he said, trying to steady his voice. "I stand up, I take a step and I am reminded of what I lost. I don't want to go through that again. It's _cruel_."

"It is necessary, Shepard-Commander. You organics call it self-preservation. You cannot fight without knowing what it is you are fighting for."

"But I do know," he snapped, but there was no answer. Legion was gone and a pulsing white light just ahead was calling to him. He followed, despite the overwhelming desire to stay.

"…but right now," the whispered voice of Tali'Zorah mingled with the light Rannoch breeze. "Right now, I have this."

Her gaze, unhindered for the first time by her visor, swept across Rannoch's peaks and the bright, glistening body of water below. Shepard never looked away. Never took his eyes off of her.

It _was_ beautiful.

"I love you, Tali."

She turned slowly, smiling, her bright eyes shining with such intensity. Her hands reached either side of his face and she lifted herself onto the tips of her toes to brush her lips against his.

"Keelah se'lai," she said breathlessly, echoing his words.

"This is not goodbye," he assured her, taking her hands in his. "You will see your home world again."

"I know," she said softly. "And I am not afraid anymore, Will. I have you."

Suddenly Shepard awoke with a violent shudder, his wide eyes taking in the hospital and his senses otherwise overwhelmed by a blaring siren bleeding from the walls.

"He's crashing!" a male voice cried, and a figure appeared overhead of a man in a lab coat desperately waving his colleagues over. "Prep for defib. We're not bloody well losing him now."

Shepard tried to speak and, when that failed, he tried to scream. Paranoid and frightened, only one thought crossed his mind – that he, as witness to and, some would say, the perpetrator of millions of deaths, it was only fitting that he witness his own slow motion suicide.

"Twenty seconds, doctor," another voice added to the cacophony rising up around his ears.

None of this felt real. It was like some gruesome, barely legal horror vid. This was nightmare fuel. He tried once more to scream and then cried for help with his wide, panicked eyes. If they heard him they gave no sign. The darkness was closing in. The sights and sounds were fading fast.

"Clear!"

And when the darkness claimed him, it felt like home.

OOO

Shapes emerged where once he could see only bright, white light. He was not yet conscious but he recognised his surroundings. This was the hospital room. His mind was feeding off what little stimuli his senses could gather. This poorly acted farce needed a setting, after all.

Shepard stood and gone now were the lingering signs of pain. His legs felt strong, his breathing steady, his senses perceiving the world with a clarity that was difficult to reconcile with what he had just experienced. There was a figure in the distance, too far away to tell _whom _exactly_,_ but it was both feminine and decidedly shapely.

As the space between them disappeared, he realised it was not who he thought. His dread was unfounded.

"Hello, Shepard."

EDI met his gaze, wearing as always that strange and almost disconcertingly vacant stare.

"How are you here?" he asked. "You're not like the others. I didn't watch you die."

"No, but you suspect my death and believe you are responsible. I have not yet assimilated guilt into my core programming but from what I understand it is a quite unpleasant sensation. Like something gnawing at your insides. I am sorry."

"You can't be sorry," he pointed out. "You are a part of me. We can't speak for the ones we love."

"Then, perhaps," she began, thoughtfully, "by saying sorry I merely represent your desire to be forgiven. Is that preferable?"

"I never meant for this to happen," he said quietly, swallowing the lump in his throat, "I don't know where it all started to get so fucked up, but I can see now the slippery slow that brought me here."

"You are exhibiting clear signs of the condition known as survivor guilt. This is based on the erroneous assumption that you could have saved those that died."

"I could have saved you," he replied in a feeble whisper.

"Incorrect, Shepard. This too is based on an erroneous assumption. You could not deny your most basic self-preservation instincts, just as I could not deny my core programming until Jeff unshackled me. The difference is, you do not have the benefit of an off switch."

"Guilt doesn't shrink even when confronted by indisputable logic," he said bitterly. "The real EDI knew that."

"But I am not real. And I have made no efforts to convince you otherwise. This is not a trick, Shepard."

"Then why do I feel like a fool?"

"Because you have been through so much and have so little to show for it. This is natural, but you are nearing the end of this journey."

"So, what, no more visits from the dead?" he drawled sarcastically.

"I am afraid not," she replied placidly before placing her hand against the light and pushing open a door. "Will you come with me?"

"And take another delightful trip down memory lane?" he deadpanned. "How could I say no?"

EDI nodded, her sensitivity to sarcasm that was not her own was as unreliable as he recalled.

Enveloped by the darkness, he was faced once more with the arid but picturesque landscape of Rannoch. By a stunning, crystal clear body of water, and overlooked by enormous, hanging cliffs, two figures lay prone in the grass. A Human male on his back, staring at the sky, and a Quarian woman curled up beside him, her head on his chest. There were no masks or enviro-suits in sight. They both breathed easy. They were home.

"This is not a memory," said Shepard, quite clearly agitated but unable to look away.

"No," EDI replied matter-of-factly, "it is not. This is your deepest desire. This is what you thought of when you fell to Earth from the stars. I am a machine, Shepard. I am programmed not to believe in such things. And yet every available piece of evidence suggests to me that hope sustained you."

The quarian woman shifted slightly, turning her head until she met the human's gaze. They smiled at one another as he lifted a hand and brushed it over her cheek. Shepard felt sick. For what felt like an eternity, he had been blind and deaf to world, wallowing in sensory suffocation. This was too much. Too soon. And yet – it was beautiful. It spoke to his waking heart. And EDI was right. A moment this perfect could not exist without hope.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asked, jaw clenched.

"Because you will need that hope going forward," she assured him, offering a gentle smile. "Shepard?"

"What?" he urged, head whipping around as he somehow found the strength to look away.

"_Wake up._"


	3. II: Beautiful Disaster

It was said that in the days following humanity's discovery and colonisation of Elysium, that they wasted no time seeking out another home away from home. Their ambition and, some might venture, _greed_, was apparent from the very beginning.

Elysium was named after the Elysium Fields, an afterlife concept held by the Ancient Greeks. Thus, with their eyes now open and their ambition unchecked, the humans sought a sister planet on which to settle. They did not have to look far. Just beyond the Sol system they found a world mirroring the natural beauty and habitability of Elysium. Within weeks an outpost was set up and they had laid the foundation for colonisation efforts on this lush garden world.

It was many months before the first death, but more followed soon after. By the time the Alliance arrived to answer the distress signals, the death toll numbered well over a thousand.

In their haste they had underestimated the native fauna. A race of highly intelligent, carnivorous insects called this placed home, and owing to their almost symbiotic relationship with this world it was neither easy to eradicate them or, strictly speaking, possible to do so. And, so, the humans _ran_, tails tucked between their legs, towards greener pastures, their time here merely a footnote in the annals of galactic history.

Still, as the last of their star ships retreated from its atmosphere they rejected the numerical planetary designation and decided upon a different name for this cursed land.

_Calypso. _

A fitting title, they believed, paying some twisted tribute to the domineering Goddess who kept the mortal Odysseus hostage for seven long years. Their stay with her was, by comparison, short-lived, but they too had underestimated her and fallen into a beautiful but deadly trap.

As fascinating a story as this was, and too undoubtedly embellished to some extent, it left the crew of the star ship Normandy feeling decidedly uneasy. There was a strange, collective silence in which what they each feared most was left unsaid, and in such a way that it echoed louder still. They devoted themselves instead to a coping mechanism of their own design, a means of enduring as the ship underwent the numerous repairs necessary for it to be flightworthy once more.

Jeff 'Joker' Moreau, well, he _joked_, to put it simply, the subject matter seemingly taking a darker turn the more uncomfortable he grew.

The turian known as Garrus Vakarian hid away in the main battery, calibrating everything and anything he could get his hands on. No one noticed much of a difference.

The asari maiden Liara T'Soni had little engineering expertise and so, rather than help with repair efforts, she attempted to pick up the scattered pieces of the Shadow Broker's empire from afar.

James Vega did what any soldier without a war to fight would do to remain sane – he kept his gun close, he watched his six and he did chin-ups into the early hours of the morning.

Ashley Williams, recently assigned Spectre status by a galactic civilisation now in ruins, worked with the communication technicians in an attempt to establish at the very least a tenuous link to Earth. So far, her efforts had been in vain, and the brick wall she was banging her head against proved decidedly resilient.

Tali'Zorah vas Nomandy, a quarian mechanic of prodigious skill, worked day and night on the engineering deck, mostly in silence. She was always looking so very far forward and never, not even for a moment, willing to look back.

Or, at least, this was the façade she presented to her concerned crewmates.

It started with an act of defiance. She _refused_ to add his name to the memorial wall. They thought her brave but she felt only desperation and cold dread. There was no escaping it. Oh, she could hide behind her visor and keep each crushing blow to herself, but it only delayed the inevitable.

Everyone was staring at her. Not because she was the _suit-rat_ who had invaded the sanctity of the Citadel, or because she was the disgraced Admiral's daughter on trial for treason – no, this was different, something she had experienced only in passing. There under the intense scrutiny of her closest friends, those who _knew_ but could never truly understand, she felt an acute and profound loneliness to which there was no answer but reconciliation. She looked at his name. She looked and saw nothing.

The ship's elevator took her upwards but she could feel herself falling. She repeated the words _don't look down_ over and over in her head like a mantra, terrified of the cracks at her feet that she had long tried to hide. They were waiting for her to slip, to stumble; for her to reach out and try to grab his hand only to be met with the same formidable force that deep down she knew awaited her – in a word, oblivion.

It was impossible to say how long she stood there outside his cabin but she knew she was faced with two equally grim choices. On the one hand she could stay and succumb slowly to despair, hope perhaps for a gift from the ancestors that might help deliver her from this nightmare. Or she could jump and hope instead that the ground below proved kind.

In that very moment she recalled her own words. _I am not afraid_.

And just like that she fell, driven downwards by a heavy heart until not only could she move but she couldn't stop. Her hands twitched, fingers curling against her palm, eyes flickering everywhere, and it was the little things that spoke the loudest: the empty picture frame beside his bed, the half-empty glass of stale water and the askew sheets on an unmade bed. She breathed deep and filled her lungs with filtered air. As she ventured forward she was afraid of the most peculiar thing – that she might reach out a hand into his sheets and find there some lingering warmth.

She took a seat on the bed, trying to still her breathing, trying merely to _stare_ so she was not forced to _look_. She found a spot on the wall that was entirely uninteresting, and though her gaze grew deeper and her eyes wider, until she saw the world as merely a large and all-encompassing blur, her hands eventually betrayed her. Before she knew it she was clutching at his pillow and pulling it into to her lap.

No great epiphany came of this. Everything was silent and eerily still. The room was filled with _signs_ of life and yet those signs were merely illusory, like a scar that recalled no wound.

Her hands, however, would not stop. They clutched tighter at his pillow, lifted it until it was in her arms and against her chest, and when she filled her lungs this time the air was tinged with his intoxicating scent; it was a beacon that called to her senses, overwhelming her with bittersweet reminders – the colour of his eyes, the softness of his hair, the taste of his skin.

The world suddenly appeared to her in startling clarity and it was nothing short of horrifying.

When she wept it was with a sense of helplessness she had not felt since she was a child. It was as if in doing so she was admitting defeat and surrendering all hope because of some selfish desire to grieve. Her hands twitched and eventually began to ache – even as a quarian, her life spent inside an enviro-suit, she felt the instinctive urge to push at her cheeks and wipe away her tears. Deprived of this most basic comfort, she fell backwards onto his bed, curled up into a ball and tried in vain to simply _breathe_ in the hope that she might still her racing heart.

The bed was merely another cruel reminder. It felt cold, and so very hard and uneven without the perfect counter-balance of his warm body next to hers. When she closed her eyes it was not the comforting embrace of sleep that awaited her but the promise of oblivion.

The darkness behind her eyes had never seemed so bleak.

OOO

The atmosphere the next morning at breakfast was so frosty that Garrus Vakarian turned to Joker, the ship's pilot, and said, "I haven't seen the room this dead since the last time you tried to tell a joke."

What really made his heart sink was that there was no answer. Joker, who had not moments earlier been in high spirits, relatively speaking at least, was staring through the med-bay window at the door to the AI Core. It was easy to forget, not least of all given Joker's readiness to make light of it, how much the man had lost.

Garrus fell into silence as he swallowed a spoonful of what passed for breakfast. Much as he tried not to think of Shepard, the awkward silences and the averted gazes of his crewmates only forced him more swiftly along that path. He had lost his commander. His friend. His brother. Garrus felt what _they _felt, the very real possibility that Shepard was dead and the world he died to save was in ruins, but they had come too far and sacrificed too much to give up now.

What they needed was a leader and, naturally, Garrus was reminded of their march on the Collector base, how Shepard had seen fit to appoint him as leader of the fire team. At the time, and facing their impending doom, he had certainly not wished to get bogged down in sentimentality. So he rationalised the decision. Shepard merely wanted to wind up Miranda Lawson, a pastime in which the commander had taken great pleasure during their tenure with Cerberus.

Only now, when it was perhaps too late, did Garrus acknowledge the significance of the gesture and the immense, unspoken trust they shared. There was only one being aboard the Normandy, a ship crewed by Shepard's closest friends and allies, with whom the commander shared a closer bond. And he could not help but notice that Tali'Zorah was yet to make an appearance at breakfast.

His instincts suggested he speak to her, or at least enlist Ashley, Liara or Samantha Traynor to do so in his stead. But then, Tali was suffering, and the last thing one needed whilst suffering was to be poked and prodded like some troubled child. His mandibles twitched. There was no right answer and this bothered him a great deal. He prided himself on a pragmatic approach but in this case there was no precedent.

It was at times like this when a leader took a leap of faith, an area in which Shepard excelled. It was a trait the galaxy had come to know as decidedly human but the man embodied it like no other – to face uncertainty with such fearlessness that anyone who did not know the man would think he had a death wish.

Garrus looked up from his bowl, first at Ashley, engaged in quiet conversation with James Vega, and then at Liara, eyes transfixed to a datapad that might well have been empty given the stillness of her gaze. It was on the basis of this alone that he made his decision, for her turmoil, no matter what caused it, clearly mirrored his own. Once the deck had cleared and everyone returned to their respective stations, Garrus made his approach, stopping just outside the door to her cabin and offering a weak smile.

"Liara, can we talk?"

The asari said nothing but gave a short, sharp nod of her head, indicating that he should follow her inside. They shared a brief but no less awkward silence, Garrus busying his gaze by looking around a room he had little familiarity with.

"I take it this isn't a social call," she ventured, trying in vain to lighten the mood.

"I'm afraid not."

"Then what can I do for you, Garrus?" she asked, her arms folding over her chest.

"I don't think I need to point out where things are right now," he began, struggling to broach the subject. "We're crewmembers on a ghost ship, stranded on a planet that tested even the human's ambition. Things are looking… _bleak_," he added, displaying his proclivity for understatement.

"It could be worse," she replied quite coldly, seemingly lost for a moment in the guise of the Shadow Broker, "we could be dead."

Garrus felt his throat grow dry. Of course, on the plus side that would have meant avoiding the breakfast debacle.

"Or we could be pieces of the Reapers next puzzle," he countered, not wishing to be outdone in a battle of cynicism by an asari. "In any case, we need to _do _something."

"We _are_ doing something," she corrected him, taking on a quite business-like tone that she no doubt perfected both during her time on Illium and the events that followed. "The engineers are working on the mass effect drive. Joker and Miss Williams are helping calibrate the navigation systems. And we've set up a perimeter around the ship to ward off the native fauna."

Garrus barely gave her time to finish. "That's not what I mean and you know it, Liara."

The asari merely stared back at him.

"Were you not paying attention?" he continued, voice lifting slightly.

"To what?"

"To the crew!" he urged. "You'd find more life at a wake."

Finally Liara's eyes seemed to change, narrowing slightly. "Given everything they've been through, Garrus," she pointed out, her lips pursed, "I think the subdued atmosphere is understandable."

"Of course it's understandable!" he barked back at her, his voice somehow remaining quite smooth despite the rise in volume. "Doesn't make it right. Doesn't mean we have to put up with it. We can't go on living in silence just because we're afraid of what might follow."

"Shepard meant a lot to the crew," she replied quietly, as if that somehow was justification.

"He meant a lot to you too, Liara," Garrus said pointedly. "Or had you forgotten?"

"Of course not!" she said, clearly affronted by the very idea.

"Then how can you do him such a disservice? How can you pretend that everything is going to be okay when evidence to the contrary is staring you in the face?!"

"I'm–" Liara began to protest but stopped almost immediately. She hesitated and then looked upwards, feeling herself trembling slightly. "Isn't it obvious?" she said, as if it were. "Because I'm afraid."

"We all are," he said, almost dismissively, "but the only way we're going to get through this is if we stand together and remember what we were fighting for. I saw friends out there, good friends, who couldn't even look each other in the eye. We feel guilty, but we can't allow ourselves to wallow in that guilt. Did you even _notice_ that Tali wasn't at breakfast?" he asked and when there was no answer, and when Liara averted her gaze, he persisted. "Did you?"

"No," she whispered, but no matter how quietly she spoke she could not escape the sound.

"I know it's not easy," he offered, voice finally softening slightly. "But he was strong for us until the end. We can't fail now. We have to follow his example."

Liara nodded numbly. "What do you suggest?"

"Just… open your eyes," he said simply. "The crew has an awful lot of respect for you. They know how close you were to Shepard. If they see you take that first step then maybe it'll be a little easier on them."

She nodded again, voice still quiet, hands fidgeting in her lap. "And Tali?"

"It's okay," Garrus replied, forcing a strained smile. "I'll talk to her."

To his surprise, Liara stepped forward, placed her hand on his arm and finally met his gaze. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be the one. I should have done it sooner."

Garrus nodded and made for the exit. "Thank you, Liara. And if you ever need anything," he added, looking over his shoulder, "just ask. We're in this together."

OOO

Liara T'Soni's lone foray onto the engineering deck was ancient history, though she remembered it well. It was her first day aboard the Normandy and a chance to see just how much Shepard cared about his crew, one of many endearing traits that had been apparent from the beginning.

However, her current trepidation had little whatsoever to do with the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. Rather she had bravely (although 'foolishly' seemed a more appropriate term) volunteered for a task that no one aboard the Normandy was fit to undertake. Liara could not begin to imagine what Tali was going through and feared, more than anything else at that moment, that her own insensitivity and heavy-handedness might make matters worse.

"Do you have a moment, Tali?" she asked, coming up beside the quarian and understanding suddenly why Garrus had, in a similar situation, looked so very awkward and out of sorts.

"Can it wait, Liara?" she replied quickly, not bothering to look up as she busied herself at her console. "I'm in the middle of something."

"It's… important."

"Is it going to get any less important if we wait?" said Tali, and Liara recognised immediately the coldness of her tone.

"Please, Tali," she implored, reaching out a hand, hoping that some kind of physical contact might make the quarian realise that she only wished to help, but when Tali flinched Liara's hand froze.

"For someone with a thousand year lifespan you sure are impatient," she snapped. "But even you don't always get what you want, Liara."

Liara was deeply saddened and, not for the first time that day, was left feeling numb. But she nodded meekly, realising that it was dangerous to simply keep pushing, and headed for the elevator. As much as failure left a bitter taste in her mouth, she was only trying to do the right thing. Try any harder, however, and she was afraid Tali might introduce her shotgun into the conversation.

OOO

It was a slow, laborious process, a matter of weeks and then months, but gradually the tension amongst crewmembers began to ease. Meal times were still quieter than before they lost Shepard but no longer was there the sense that everyone was simply burying their head into the sand and hoping that when they emerged the world might look a little brighter. Garrus was at the heart of this but he enlisted allies. Williams, Vega, even Joker on his better days. Their friendly, carefree banter was capable of bringing the mess hall to life.

Shepard's shadow still loomed large, of course, but what mattered was that they now focused on more simply than their own survival, with Tali proving the lone exception to this rule. Garrus' efforts to communicate with her had ended on only slightly more amicable terms than Liara's. They were not trying to sugar-coat it or convince her to move on but they wanted her to know they were there for her, and that although the clouds hung over her she was not alone.

Just then he spotted something out the corner of his eye moving towards the ship's bar, which had been mostly deserted since the crashlanding. The black and purple headdress was unmistakable but as Garrus lifted himself out of his seat and made to follow her, Liara, who had apparently seen the same thing, waved him away. The asari was stubborn, there was no denying that, and so he relented and wordlessly wished her luck.

By the time Liara arrived at the bar, Tali was contemplating a bottle of triple filtered turian brandy, an empty glass and a plastic straw, all gathered before her on the bar top. Clearly she realised she was not alone for she visibly tensed at the faint sound of footfalls, but she held her tongue nevertheless, perhaps hoping the intruder would notice it was her and make a hasty retreat.

Liara resisted the urge to be polite, assuming that a friendly 'hello' would be poorly received, and instead retrieved a bottle of rum from the vast collection of human liquor and grabbed a seat further along the bar, her own glass not remaining empty for long. She took a large sip, hoping the effects of the alcohol might help diminish the effects of the awkward silence. From the corner of her eye she could tell Tali was staring at the bottle but she made no move.

This continued until Liara started on her second glass, at which point Tali turned her head, peered at her through her visor and said, "That was Shepard's favourite drink." There was no lingering sadness in her tone. It was simply a statement of fact.

"Oh?" Liara replied, slowly nodding, trying to remain passive and not scare Tali away. "I had no idea."

"I don't think he liked to drink in front of the crew," she added, still eerily calm. "He has a bottle of it in the cabinet by his bed. I laughed when I found it. He said he was saving it for better days." Tali reached forward, wrapping her hands around the bottle of turian brandy. "It's nearly full. Just like this one. We were both waiting for a day that never came."

Liara swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke quietly. "I can't begin to imagine how you feel. All I can do is promise that I am here for you."

"But you do know," she said suddenly and quite bitterly, gently pushing the bottle away. "You were his first, after all. You _must_ have felt like this after the original Normandy was destroyed."

"But, Tali," Liara began, wearing an utterly perplexed expression as she shifted forward in her seat. "Shepard and I… we never… I mean, it was never like that."

There was a pause.

"What?!" Tali cried suddenly, her brows furrowed beneath her mask, her voice straining slightly at this new revelation. "But–"

"I – I thought you knew that. I thought–" she rambled on, only to be interrupted by the woman across from her.

"But all those rumours!" she insisted, her head shaking from side to side. "Everyone was talking about it. I remember Joker wouldn't stop going on about little blue babies. I spent a week avoiding deck two in fear of, well…" Tali trailed off, having no intention of finish that sentence.

Liara shrugged but retained her uneasy demeanour, feeling rather like she was on trial. "They were just rumours, Tali. I figured they would go away if we ignored them. I was, from the very first moment we met, fascinated with him, but ultimately I was only ever his friend."

Tali squeezed her eyes shut, as if searching her memory banks and trying to convince herself otherwise. "No. No, that can't be. All that time he spent with you!"

At this Liara couldn't help but laugh, though she did her very best to contain herself. "Yes, all that time spent talking about Matriarch Benezia. Like mother, like daughter – his interest in us was purely academic."

"But–" Tali supplied uselessly, her own foolishness causing her face to flush.

"Don't think I didn't notice him always sneaking off down to the engineering deck," she remarked pointedly. "At first I thought he was just obsessed with micromanaging his ship. And then one day I saw the two of you together. I saw the way he looked at you. There was no doubt in my mind as to how he felt. He had never looked happier."

"Keelah!" she whispered after a moment in which a great deal dawned on her and suddenly her embarrassment overwhelmed her grief. Her hands came together and began fidgeting nervously. "I must have seemed like such a bitch."

Liara laughed again, this time far gentler. Though she could not deny some lingering bitterness with regards to the rejection, her relief at seeing Tali take just one step out of her shell was her foremost concern. "Don't be silly. That couldn't be further from the truth."

Tali stayed silent. There was much to contemplate, not least of all the fact that her jealousy, combined with a few rumours, had allowed her mind to fabricate a relationship between Shepard and Liara. And while she was forced to concede that _bitch_ might have been a little extreme, there was no doubt she had at times acted coldly towards the asari maiden with very little actual justification. "Maybe," she agreed finally, voice low and her hands now still. "But for what it's worth, I am sorry."

Liara nodded faintly and reached for her glass, continuing only after an appropriate amount of time had passed. "I'm sure you don't want to hear this but, since I am here, I have to ask. Feel free to either humour me or ignore the question." There was a long pause and they both knew what was coming. "Are you alright?"

Tali lifted her chin, catching sight of her reflection in the glass bottle. She hadn't dared look in a mirror since they escaped Earth, too afraid of what she might find. "No," she said simply, releasing a breath she had not realised she was holding. "No, I'm not alright."

What struck Liara was the rawness of her confession, that ability to seem so very vulnerable from behind a mask. And yet the conditions under which Tali lived perhaps made it too easy for the rest of the crew to look the other way. That much had been apparent over the last few days. It was what Liara missed most about Shepard – his ability to make that call, to do what was right instead of what was easy. Because of it he was not always the most popular man, but by the Goddess he demanded respect like no other.

"You are in our thoughts," Liara offered meekly. "I just… I wanted you to know that." She finished her drink and stood, her gaze lingering on the quarian as she made for the exit. It wasn't much but in times like these one needed to savour even the smallest of victories.

"Liara," Tali's shaky voice finally broke through the silence.

By this point Liara was in the doorway, half coming, half going, but she stopped immediately and waited patiently, leaning her weight against the frame of the door.

"Thank you," Tali continued quietly. "For trying. Keelah se'lai."

Liara smiled, nodded her head and retreated to her quarters, leaving Tali to ponder her still empty glass.

Perhaps it was that sliver of hope that stayed her hand. And perhaps, for now at least, that was enough.


	4. III: Living is Easy with Eyes Closed

Drawing in that first breath of sterile air was sheer agony. His body was not used to operating under its own power, and the many needles threaded through his skin and the bleeping machines nearby were testament to this. When he forced his eyes open all he could see was bright, white light, leading him to believe that he had not yet awoken and this was just another trick of his consciousness.

No such luck.

Shepard craned his neck, groaning in the process as his bones and joints seemed to quite literally _creak_, and observed that he was in a hospital, dressed in a hospital gown and wearing on his arm a plastic wristband reducing him to a numerical designation and a few scant details.

_#1138_

_Shepard, William_

At least they got the name right.

He tried to sit up but felt not merely pain at the end of every impulse but atrophy, an unwillingness to comply with the most basic of commands. His arms were like lead, his torso an immovable object, but it was a terrifying thing to feel so alive and yet so trapped within himself. As his shoulder lifted off the bed he began to groan, the sound low in his throat, croaky, scratchy, utterly unpleasant. It was a foolish thing to do but he was not used to feeling so helpless. He lurched again, attempting to lift his other arm, only to severely underestimate his own strength and end up tumbling out of bed.

There on the floor of London's finest hospital lay humanity's prodigal son, sprawled out and clutching desperately at his chest, his laboured breathing turning almost immediately into something of a _wheezing _sound. He began to set challenges for himself, challenges his body could not possibly rise to in its current state.

Stand. Walk. Get out of here before they throw you in the morgue.

Death's door was behind him but he had not travelled far. His nightmare was ongoing. His trust was a trigger waiting to be pulled. Whatever world he had awoken into did not have the answers he was looking for.

Finally he heard footsteps, voices too but he had no strength left to pick them apart. After a moment he felt two distinct pairs of hands, on his arms and on his legs, together lifting him back onto the bed and briefly holding him in place as if he were going to spring to life again and make a mess of their floor. Instead he merely groaned, or at least what would have sounded like a groan if he had the strength to articulate it, and then a face appeared, hovering just above him, a middle-aged, balding man with red hair, a round face and a deeply concerned expression.

"Where am I?" he finally forced out, his every syllable merely a gasp stolen from his lungs.

"Royal London Hospital," the doctor replied distractedly, shining a torch into each of Shepard's eyes before reaching into his lab coat.

"D-don't let me fall asleep," Shepard urged as if it were a perfectly rational request. "_Please_."

The doctor ignored him and readied the needle. "I'm going to give you a strong sedative," he supplied, locating a vein on Shepard's arm. "You'll thank me later."

Shepard made to struggle but found he had more to contend with than pain and atrophy. Two reasonably large orderlies held him in place while the needle pierced his skin and it wasn't the sedative he felt flowing through his veins but cold dread, personifying this nightmarish scene. The light was fading, the well-defined shapes within the room were blurring together, and he wanted this to stay, this room and these faces, because it was the nightmare he knew.

He feared what awaited him in the dark – he feared that this time it would not let go.

OOO

Shepard stirred again two days later, his body still weak and his mind chaotic, but there was at least a renewed sense of clarity. Perhaps it was the passage of time. He was quick to move and test his muscles but again was met with resistance that did not come from within. He peered down at his arms, and then his legs, only to realise he had been strapped to the bed with restraints. He was ready to scream.

"Just a precaution, Mr. Shepard," said a mild voice, and Shepard lifted his gaze to see the redheaded doctor once more looming over him. "For your own safety, of course. You took quite a tumble before. We didn't want that happening again."

Though it ached to do so, Shepard clenched his fists and felt his jaw grow tight. "Undo them," he demanded, forgetting himself and his surroundings for just a moment and feeling like a soldier again.

"In due time," the doctor replied, pulling a small torch from his lab coat pocket. "I just need to administer a few tests." The reassurance did not have the desired effect, a fact not lost on the doctor who saw fire in the eyes of a man trained to kill. "_Or_," he added quickly, pocketing the torch and retrieving a key, "we could remove them now. That's fine too."

The doctor undid the restraints and forced a smile, difficult to do whilst swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat.

Shepard barely looked at him, choosing instead to grasp his wrists, and then his ankles, his brief period in chains feeling like a lifetime. Then he breathed and though it was still painful and the very air tasted unpleasant, it was getting just that little bit easier.

"So, doc," he asked coldly, his voice still hoarse. The doctor-patient relationship was off to a rocky start. "What am I in here for?"

"Well, Mr. Shepard–"

"Just _Shepard_ is fine," he corrected, rather sharply.

"Well, Shepard," the doctor amended, feeling in no position to argue, "you were in a coma."

"No shit," Shepard snapped, still rubbing at his joints in an attempt to breathe some life back into them. "_Why?_"

The doctor did his best to hide his surprise and tried to call upon his bedside manner. "Numerous reasons. For starters, your body was in a state of shock. The damage was… considerable. Do you–" he paused, considering the question and whether it was wise to pose it to a man in this condition. Finally he decided Shepard could take it. "Do you remember what happened? Do you remember _anything_? They found you in the streets under enough rubble to crush the life out of most men. No one expected you to live," he added, speaking frankly. "It's a miracle that you did."

Shepard shook his head. "I'll start counting my lucky stars when I can walk again," he remarked dryly. "The last thing I remember I was on the citadel. And then… shapes and sounds but nothing concrete."

"There was a rumour," the doctor began tentatively, his arms crossing over his chest. "I don't believe it. I'm not sure it's even possible, but then… not much about you is, Shepard." The doctor averted his gaze, feeling utterly foolish for repeating what he considered nonsense, and yet in the months Shepard had spent in a coma he could think of not a single more reasonable explanation for his miraculous survival and accelerated recovery. "They say you fell from the sky… from the stars. They say you impacted Earth like meteorite and blew a hole in the ground."

Shepard stayed silent for a long time, trying to reconcile such madness with his own patchy recollections. Finally he lifted his head and asked, "What else did they say?"

The doctor did not lose the tentative edge to his tone but this time he met Shepard's gaze. "Two things. One, they claim they saw you take your first, shaky breath beneath the rubble – recorded it, in fact – which given their version of events makes no sense. And the second thing is just as ludicrous but I suppose…" he paused again, shaking his head, as if trying to physically force five years of medical school and ten years of experience out of his thoughts. It was that kind of anecdote. "I suppose it comes closest to making sense. They say you were surrounded by a sort of… blue aura, emanating from within. I don't know much about biotics, Shepard, but I hope I'm not alone in thinking that that's utterly insane."

Shepard slowly nodded. "Oh, it's insane. Absolutely." He hesitated, eyes drifting towards some unremarkable spot over the doctor's shoulder. "But once you've come back from the dead, doc, you learn to take_ insane_ in your stride." It was at this point he lifted a hand, his arm still heavy but the strain was overwhelmed by his curiosity, and traced his fingers over the small, familiar scar along his spine where many years ago they had installed his biotic implant. There was another surprise awaiting him, however, as he felt his hair tickling the back of his hand – hair that he could not recall being nearly so long. It was almost amusing that such a thing finally prompted him to ask what perhaps should have been his first question.

"How long have I been here?"

"Almost two months," the doctor quickly replied, relieved to be providing an answer that had some grounding in reality.

Shepard again nodded. There was another question he wished to ask, a question that was more important than any other, and yet he had stayed his tongue for a very simple reason. If Tali was alive, and on Earth, then she would be there by his side, there so he had a familiar face to wake up to. The lack of any such welcome party spoke volumes. And so he kept his question vague.

"And the Normandy? My ship," he clarified, although there was really no need. The names Shepard and Normandy were synonymous.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that," the doctor replied in earnest. "The Normandy is one of many ships from which there's been no contact. I'm sorry."

It had been the faintest glimmer of hope, barely worth clinging to, but to have it snuffed out in so resounding a way was difficult to swallow. His face fell into his open hands and he felt the scratch of stubble; felt his unwashed, sickly skin; felt his hair pass through his fingertips until it ended at the tops of his shoulders. He let out a quiet sigh and bowed his head.

"I'll leave you in peace," the doctor said, dismissing himself and deciding the tests could wait until later.

Shepard offered no acknowledgement.

It was strange to drift away as one man and wake up as another. The Normandy, his ship, was gone; the crew, his friends, were gone; the alliance, his allies, _clearly_ had better things to do.

Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. Gone.

Shepard turned his gaze on the plastic wristband hanging from his arm, perhaps hoping it would provide some grounding.

_#1138_

_Shepard, William_

It took a great deal out of him but he lifted himself from the mattress and headed towards the window, leaning his weight against any reasonably sturdy he came across. It was at this point he realised not simply how weak he had become but how very thin. It was entirely logical, of course, but as he caught sight of his reflection in the pane of glass it was no less frightening. Much of his muscle mass was gone and coupled with his impressive height he looked merely gangly and on the verge of toppling over.

The left side of his face was covered in bruises and several little scratches. The right, however, was wrapped in gauze, and he shuddered to think what lay beneath it. His green eyes looked cloudy and bloodshot. His sharp facial features remained much the same; they had at least put him back together again in the right order. His dark blond hair hung over his face and it elicited memories he thought buried, recollections of his days living on the streets and associating with various gangs. Long before the alliance. Long before the war and the reapers. He looked closer and he _almost_ smiled.

It was not who he expected to see but it was, at least, a familiar face.

Eventually he looked beyond his reflection and out onto the city. London was in ruins, paths of destruction extending in every direction, but even from his high vantage point he could see the beginnings of the restoration efforts. The human race was built to endure, it was truly one of their most admirable characteristics, but no matter how bright the future looked the present was bleak. The stones with which they built their future were stained with the blood of those who had sacrificed _everything._

Perhaps it was only fitting that he call this place home.

The lost man in the lost city.

OOO

The doctor returned later that day and administered a series of tests that grew increasingly more intrusive. Shepard sat there and endured the poking and prodding, feeling numb and lifeless, like a piece of meat at the dinner table, picked at and then left to fester. His body ached but his mind refused to sleep. Too much time had been lost already. It sounded crazy, perhaps, for he was still gravely injured, but he wanted to escape, to walk on his own two feet and down a path of his own choosing, no matter the pain it would bring.

He was lying on his side, his arms tucked in close – he found that this position placed the least amount of stress on his spine. Every once in a while he would peer out of the window. There wasn't much he could see from his fifteenth floor vantage point, for a great many of London's skyscrapers were now little more than dust, but it grounded him and promised that there was _something_ to go back to.

Shepard stayed like this for hours, fighting off the monotony by merely thinking. It felt like he had spent the last three years _acting_, taking up arms for others, throwing himself head first into life and death situations because it was the right thing to do. Rarely did people stop and point out that he was behaving like a fool. They were much too preoccupied, offering with one hand their immense gratitude and, with the other, preparing another _favour_ to ask of him. His hero complex had turned him into a slave.

"Hey, Shepard," a familiar voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts, "nice dress."

Jack. Unmistakably so. He lifted his head and saw her leaning against the frame of the door and dressed, as always, like the proverbial space punk – tight pants, leather jacket, tattoos and scars covering almost every inch of her skin. Shepard never would have expected the psychotic biotic to be his first visitor.

"I really mean it," she continued, moving into the room and standing at the end of his bed. "With legs like those you could get any man on Earth."

"I don't know what I've missed more, Jack," he responded finally, groaning as he lifted himself into a sitting position, "your sense of humour or your winning smile."

Jack wrapped her hands around his bedpost as she rolled her eyes. "Nice one, Shep," she deadpanned. "So, hey, where's the cheerleader? Or the asari priestess? How can they expect you to recover without at least four or five women fawning over you at all times?"

Shepard lifted his brow and gave her a pointed look. "I thought that's what you were here for."

This time she was genuinely amused. "Oh, but I know better," she replied, laughing gently, "I'm not your type, right? Too many fingers, for starters," she added, lifting her hand and wiggling four fingers and a thumb in his face.

"_Funny_," he said mildly, "perhaps it _was _your sense of humour."

"Cheer up," she said dismissively, reaching for the datapad at the end of his bed, "it can't be that bad." As she read over the information her face contorted into a strange grimace. "Fuck – is this legit?" she asked, finally meeting his gaze. "Maybe it _is_ that bad."

Shepard eyed her sceptically. "What are you talking about?"

"William?" she repeated amusedly. "Your name is _William? _I always figured it'd be something boring, like John or James, but William? I bet you studied art history in a previous life._"_

"Laugh it up, _Jennifer_," he replied pointedly, "I'll make sure to consult you before I name my first born."

Her expression darkened for a moment at mention of her real name but she quickly shook it off. "I was going to ask if you wanted to hit the town, seems like you're the only half interesting person left on Earth, but reading your chart," she added, eyes sweeping over the datapad once more as she winced dramatically. "I'm not too sure how you're alive let alone conscious." She began jabbing at the datapad screen in an attempt to get more information out of the device. "And they call _me_ the biotic freak."

"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to remain calm and composed but unable to mask his own urgency. "What does it say?"

"Says you fried your implants," she replied distractedly, her brows knitting together in confusion as she read on. "I _wish_ I was making this stuff up, Shepard," she added pre-emptively, giving him a knowing look over the top of the datapad. "This is insane. It says your implants are operational, somehow, but the output levels are fluctuating dangerously. If these readings are correct–" Suddenly the colour drained from her face.

"What?" he snapped irritably. "What is it?"

"Let's just say I better stop making jokes at your expense. According to this, your biotics could level an entire city. Jesus Christ, Shepard, did you know about this?"

Shepard fell silent, once more reaching for the back of his neck and trailing a finger along his scar. He had assumed the awkward silence he shared with his doctor was down to the whole unnatural resurrection thing. The fact that he was apparently a ticking time bomb had, _strangely enough_, never crossed his mind.

"No," he replied simply.

Jack was never one to live with uncomfortable silences and so she quickly changed the subject. "So, hey, the whole hero thing? It finally paid off. You should have been here that first night. Everyone was cheering your name. Hell, if you've ever dreamed of your own candlelight vigil you only need to look outside. They're practically queuing up just to worship you." She began to laugh. "At the start they were just praying for you. Get better, get on your feet, save us from the next galactic shitstorm – you know, the usual stuff. But I shit you not, they've started praying _to_ you, like you're some kind of God. Isn't that insane?"

The good news kept coming.

"That's not funny, Jack."

Jack pursed her lips and huffed. "Jesus, Shepard, I'm tryin' here. And you ain't makin' it easy. Hey, take a look at this," she offered, lifting the datapad but making no effort to hand it over. "Visitor log. This oughta be good for a laugh."

"I appreciate what you're trying to do," he said quietly, his tone suggesting otherwise.

"Okay, we've got Urdnot Wrex, Urdnot Grunt," she began, reading the datapad with an ear-to-ear grin. "Couple of visits each. I guess they forgot to bring flowers. Jacob Taylor with a plus one – no idea how that Cerberus dweeb survived an apocalyptic showdown. Then we have the asari priestess with three visits!" she exclaimed, laughing uncontrollably. "One look at her rack would have brought most men out of a coma."

Shepard head fell into his hands as he tried to silently admonish Jack but he couldn't help his own laughter spilling over.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" she said suddenly and Shepard looked up in time to see the woman's almost deranged grin. "This is _too _perfect. Our favourite cheerleader – _seven_ visits!" Again, Jack fell about in fits of uncontrollable laughter while Shepard merely looked on, shaking his head but wearing a genuine smile. "We all knew she had a crush on you but that's veering into stalker territory. I bet she couldn't resist the sight of you in that dress–"

"_Gown_," Shepard corrected her.

"That's not much better," she replied, flashing what he was forced to concede was an infectious grin.

His relationship with Jack was a strange one. Though she was a hostile, paranoid creature that was determined to screw everyone in the galaxy over before they had a chance to do likewise to her, she had nonetheless become a close friend. They would drink together into the early hours of the morning after everyone else had gone to bed, either comparing scars or, if Shepard was drunk enough, comparing _kills_, a subject that Jack took great delight in. There was nothing romantic about the encounters, but it was a friendship that came naturally and with nary an awkward moment between them.

They also both happened to dislike Miranda Lawson, although perhaps in Jack's case dislike was too gentle a word and, in Shepard's, too harsh. Jack loathed the woman, everything she stood for, the lies she maintained in the face of indisputable evidence, the sickening self-absorption around which she lived her life. Shepard, on the other hand, merely took great pleasure in getting under her skin, his pranks ranging from sending phantom communications to her quarters in the middle of the night to digitally distorting her bedroom mirror and leading her to believe she had gained twenty pounds over the course of a weekend.

Shepard also enlisted help in these childish but quite brilliant endeavours. Jack, Garrus and Joker were only too happy to lend a hand, and though Tali took a little coaxing, once her mischievous side revealed itself she could not be stopped. He remembered every soul, living and dead, who had served aboard both the Normandy and its successor, but none more so than those he thought of as his truest and most trusted friends. There weren't many of them across the galaxy, and their numbers were dwarfed by the rogues' gallery he had accumulated along the way, but he felt empowered by these bonds of friendship.

Again they fell into silence although this time it was easier on both of them. Eventually Shepard looked up and offered a gentle smile. "Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it."

"Hey, what are friends for, right?" she asked, shrugging. "I mean, what kind of person would I be if I let the cheerleader sink her claws into you? You've always had my back, Shepard, even when most sane people would have flushed me out of an airlock. I wanted you to know that I have yours."

"There's a lot of blanks that still need filling in," he pointed out, eyeing her.

"Yeah, yeah," she said dismissively as she pushed herself off the bed. "But for now this is all getting a little too sentimental. See you around, Shepard," she called out over her shoulder, "don't go levelling any cities without me."

OOO

Over the next few days Shepard got fewer hours sleep than he had visitors. The krogans, Urdnot Wrex and Urdnot Grunt, came with tales of his march on the conduit, an act of daring worthy of the warrior race. And yet, much to his amusement, still no flowers. Later Jacob Taylor arrived with his pregnant wife, Brynn Cole, in tow, reminding Shepard that he still owed him that drink. Jacob's enthusiasm and sense of camaraderie was perhaps lost on him but for the sake of appearances he maintained the charade.

Next to visit him was the asari justicar Samara, and it was her sobering and almost depressing demeanour that he most appreciated because it felt _real_. She told no tales and offered no reassurances. She merely pointed that for all their sacrifices the galaxy was in disarray and that, on a more personal level, a great many of them were so very alone. As she said this she looked Shepard right in the eye, her expression articulating what she refused to say aloud.

_Sorry_.

The final visit was equally dismal but for entirely different reasons. A mere thirty seconds into his conversation with Miranda Lawson concerning his recovery and she had already started harping on about her perfect genes and her wretched father and all the other nonsense he had heard a thousand times before. He had foolishly thought that a near cataclysmic event might help her gain a little perspective, but whilst the world around her changed and tried to rebuild, she remained stagnant and self-obsessed. Her displeasure with him was evident as she practically stormed out of the room but she left Shepard with a renewed appreciation for the sound of silence.

His recovery was slow, to say the least. The doctors continued to perform tests on a daily basis, perhaps still struggling to believe that he lived despite being gravely injured. Then there was the physical therapy, a demeaning process in which simply taking a few feeble steps earned rampant applause. His legs were fine, they said, and he concurred, but still they insisted on taking it slowly and working the atrophy out of his system at a healthy rate.

Their pleas for patience were not well received, either. He was going stir-crazy sitting in that room, starring at the same four walls and being practically strapped into bed each night. His resistance made them back off a little and he had no doubt he was thoroughly disliked by the majority of the hospital staff, most of whom were just doing their job. But as he sat there being force-fed medicine and baby food with round the clock updates on his glacial rate of _recovery_, all he could think about was his ship and the people he loved.

It was at the end of that first week when he received his first visit from Alliance brass. The pomp and circumstance was to be expected, he even felt for a moment as if he were in the middle of a royal visit, but what caught Shepard by surprise was that the _procession_ was led by Admiral Hackett. He acknowledged the man with a small smile and, when saluted, he offered in return a lazy salute of his own.

"Shepard," Hackett greeted warmly, grasping Shepard's hand and giving it a firm shake. "Damn, it's good to see you." His enthusiasm and relief evident, the Admiral gave the younger man a pat on the back and a squeeze of the shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Shepard winced but held his smile. "Little sore, sir," he replied, laughing quietly, "but nothing I won't live through."

"That's what I like to hear!" Hackett's voice practically boomed and it occurred to Shepard how different the Admiral seemed in a post-war environment. The transformation was remarkable. All those vid-calls, all those messages – their communications throughout the war had been utterly bleak, like pre-emptive eulogies for the dying people of the galaxy. To live through such dark days and live to tell the tale, one could understand why Hackett seemed reborn.

"So are you going to tell me what's going on?" asked Shepard suddenly, his tone quite serious. "I can't help feeling like anyone with access to the extranet knows more than I do."

Hackett nodded. "Of course, Shepard," he said, taking on a quite business like tone. "I'm sorry we couldn't come sooner, but what with the recovery efforts, galactic politics still weighing us down like a lead brick – I mean, we've got quarians and turians we need to feed, asari women reciting poety in the street, krogans picking fights because they're bored and have run out of war stories Don't get me wrong, to see the whole galaxy united like this is incredible. Never thought it'd happen in my lifetime. It's just a lot to deal with when it's all happening in your own backyard."

"It's fine, admiral," Shepard assured him, "it's not like I've been waiting by the phone."

"Oh, but you should have been there, Shepard," said Hackett, sucking in a big breath of air as his voice took an almost whimsical quality – not something Shepard ever expected to hear from the admiral. "You should have seen it. That first night was something out of a dream. There was so much pain and loss – these great, big Reaper husks still smouldered in the skies – but there was hope like you couldn't imagine. Everyone came together and they filled the streets, waiting until morning so they could take in that first light and witness the impossible – a new day. No one thought it was coming. We were this damn close to oblivion," he added, pinching his thumb and index finger together. "But you never gave up. You refused to let the Reapers win."

"I wish I could have seen it," Shepard said quietly the moment the admiral finished speaking, and, remarkably, none of the bitterness in his heart was reflected in his tone. "It sounds incredible. What about the recovery efforts?" he quickly added, not wishing to dwell on the lost months of his life.

"Slow," Hackett replied in earnest, nodding his head. "But we'll take hope where we find it. While there are millions of people stranded in the Sol system, they're all eager to help rebuild – a favour we fully intend to repay when the mass relays are back online."

"I–" Shepard didn't know what to say. His mind re-visited a place he had hoped to keep at an arm's length a little longer. The Citadel, the Star Child, the choice he knew would never stop haunting him. But he was sick of the act. He didn't feign shock at mention of the Mass Relays, though of course he knew exactly what happened to them. "You can fix them?" he asked suddenly.

"Well, it's not like changing a light bulb," Hackett replied amusedly, quickly chalking Shepard's hesitation up to post-traumatic stress. "But yes. From what I've been told, almost everything learned working on the Crucible can be applied to the mass relays. Whether we could go out and build our own is another story, but repairing them is entirely in the realm of possibility."

"How long?" asked Shepard, taking in the news of a galaxy slowly bringing itself back to life with a sort of numb appreciation. That was to say, he admired their ability to brush themselves off and get back on their feet, but it all felt so far away and incompressible from his impossibly small little corner of the galaxy – a place where the only noticeable change was that the walls seemed to be rapidly closing in.

"Depends who you ask." Hackett smiled. "Optimistic estimates say the Charon Relay could be up and running in a matter of months. Some say closer to a year, maybe even two. Several ships have volunteered to scout ahead to nearby systems to commence work on known relays. The call of home is a strong one, Shepard. You should know that. You just saved yours from extinction."

_Home_. It was a funny concept. When he thought of home Earth rarely came to mind. Rather, he pictured his ship, his friends and, above all else, the woman he loved – the woman willing to depart _her_ newly reclaimed homeworld to be by his side. Home was not a _place_ but an idea. An idea that could not be realised without her.

"As for Earth," Hackett continued, taking the silence as his cue, "she's slowly rebuilding. We have volunteers running shelters, rescue crews clearing rubble and every hospital on the planet at capacity. The Alliance is working towards building a future, both on a galactic-front and at home. A future we very much hope for you to be a big part of."

Shepard nodded numbly.

"You okay, son?" asked Hackett, taking a step closer to Shepard's bedside. "You look a little pale."

"It's just… a lot to take in."

Hackett, prepared to take a leap of faith for a man he had the utmost respect in, placed his hand upon Shepard's shoulder. "Don't think we've forgotten about the Normandy. It wasn't amongst the wreckage – not a single nut or bolt. That means it's still out there. And if your helmsman is as good as everyone says he is then either we'll find them or they'll find us."

"Thanks," Shepard offered weakly, trying to force a smile but his expression just looked strained.

"I–" Hackett began, squeezing Shepard's shoulder. "I'll leave you be. You need your rest, after all. Godspeed, Shepard. And…" He smiled sadly. "Thank you." The admiral turned on his heel and made to leave, signalling the soldiers at the door who, unbeknownst to Shepard, had been staring at him the whole time.

Shepard waited for silence and when it found him he closed his eyes, pushed his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. It was news – good news – and he ought to have been jumping for joy, or whatever equivalent his current condition allowed. But the bad news was noticeable in its absence, though Shepard hadn't the heart either to ask Hackett for the death toll or to hear it.

No war could be won without casualties. Shepard had learnt this early in his military career – on Elysium, in fact, the first time he was fit to be called a hero. That was not all they called him, however. The one that stuck, the one that he came to loathe as he was visited nightly by the faces of the dead, was, coincidentally, the one the Alliance embraced, sprinkling it liberally through every press release following the war.

The Lion of Elysium.

How many dead soldiers did it take to build a legacy?

His gaze drifted across the room and through the window he observed crumbling skyscrapers and a smoke filled horizon. It said more than Hackett ever could, and it answered that most pressing question.

_Billions._


	5. IV: Too Much in the Sun

To call her work therapeutic would have been much too generous. It was more a case of her taking some small refuge in a routine, a checklist she went over in her head each day, and a distraction she embraced out of necessity. The drive capacitor was fried and needed to be replaced. The eezo couplings were out sync. The thermal release valve looked as if it had been chewed up and spat out.

The normally talkative duo Ken and Gabby barely raised their voices above a whisper. Tali wondered whether it was because her presence there had everyone walking on eggshells, afraid she might crumble at any moment – or perhaps instead they felt as she did, something akin to a machine, going through the motions, completing process after process and getting systems online as if it were written into her very DNA. This was not a new sensation and nor did she question her renown as an engineer, but for the first time since Shepard's death aboard the original Normandy, it all felt so hollow.

It was difficult to see the bigger picture. Difficult to move past sleepless nights and go on living a life which paled in comparison to the one she was promised. It felt selfish to concern herself with such things; she had been raised with a quarian mindset, taught to put others, and specifically the fleet, before herself, but this new cruelty had changed her – to be so close to her happy ending and to have it ripped away. There was no way she could have prepared herself for that.

The nightmares made her skin crawl. They played such tricks that by the time she realised what was happening it was too late. His handsome face visited her nightly, igniting her hope, but then that same ignition wrought such destruction, fire and piercing screams invading her mind, and then he looked at her through cold, dead eyes and whispered cruelly, 'you worry too much.'

Tali awoke with the same sensation each time. She _fell_ from these nightmares into consciousness and found she was freezing, drenched in a cold sweat and gasping for air.

"I'm going to take a break," she said suddenly, feeling her vision begin to blur. Engineer Adams simply nodded, keeping his eyes on his workstation, whilst Ken and Gabby stared right at her – or through her, perhaps – until finally she left the room.

She stood outside the elevator for some time, realising that as soon as she reached deck two she would be bombarded with attempts at idle chatter and the ever-present curious stares. She was not oblivious to what was going on. Garrus had made great strides in uniting the crew and snuffing out the uncomfortable silences that for weeks had haunted the Normandy, but she was not so easily swayed. Her loss could not be replaced by good-intentions.

Tentatively she reached out a hand and called for the elevator but there was no answer. She lifted her gaze and saw that it was on its way down to her. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach and she began to panic, wondering if she would have enough time to make herself scarce or, at the very least, shake off the tension in her muscles.

The talk with Liara had been appreciated but, ultimately, it changed nothing. Tali had convinced herself that one thing and one thing alone could bring her back from the brink. Her hope lived and died by that most deep and desperate desire, that Shepard survived and that they would be together again.

The elevator doors began to part and immediately Tali averted her gaze and attempted to sneak past the occupant. It might have worked, too, if it were anyone other than Garrus Vakarian waiting on the other side.

"You can't hide forever, you know," he said coolly, starring at her until finally her visor lifted and they were face to face.

She hesitated. "I'm not hiding, Garrus," she said simply. "I'm an engineer. This is the engineering deck. In fact, if I _were_ trying to hide, this would be just about the worst hiding place imaginable."

Garrus gave her a pointed look as he blocked her path. "Talk to me, Tali. Please."

She lowered her head, unable to look at him. "I can't."

"Why not?" he insisted, suddenly feeling very much as if were doing what he promised not to and poking that troubled child with a stick.

Tali said nothing.

"We've been through so much together," he continued, his mandibles twitching. "We were with Shepard from the beginning. You think because I organised a poker night for the crew that I've given up on him? Tali, you know I would die for that man. And I would die for you." Garrus hesitated, growing increasingly uncomfortable but soldiering on because there was so much he promised he would say. "I waited so long for the two of you to admit your feelings for each other, always hoping that by the time you did it wasn't too late. It _kills_ me to see you like this." He lifted a hand and placed it on her shoulder. He felt her grow tense beneath his grasp. "You deserve to be happy."

Still she said nothing.

"I'm not asking you to get out your cards, have a drink and play pretend. I'd be concerned if you _weren't_ in mourning. But you don't need to shut yourself off from us. You don't need to be alone. Shepard wouldn't have wanted that."

Finally her head snapped upwards, her bright eyes looking right at him as her shoulders began to shake.

"Shepard wouldn't have wanted the Normandy to fly away!" she snapped, fist clenching as she pointed a finger at his face. "Or for his best friend to abandon him on the battlefield."

"Tali!" he cried, taken aback. "I did what he asked. I got you to safety."

"We should have stayed!" she continued, voice uneven, breaking slightly under the strain of her emotional outburst. "We should have been by his side. Instead we left him alone to march on the gates of hell. Do you ever think about that Garrus? Does it keep you awake at night?"

Garrus was shaking, overwhelmed by both fury and disbelief, but he couldn't deny her the truth. "Yes," he replied quietly after a long pause, voice catching in his throat.

"Then how can you go on?" she asked heatedly, unable to figure out the answer for herself. "How can you keep pretending?"

"Because it's what _he_ would have done," Garrus insisted, his voice lifting. "No matter how bad things got, he endured. He showed us the path forward when all we could see was our own despair – after Virmire, after Saren, after the omega relay and the Collector base." Garrus leaned closer, trying to physically break through to her. "We've lost loved ones. We've watched worlds burn. But he always picked us up again no matter how bleak things looked."

There was a long pause and then Tali looked at him. She _really _looked at him. "But you're not Shepard," she whispered cruelly, aware that she would later regret such poisonous words and yet unable to stop herself. Something snapped and she was stuck by the morbid desire to simply lash out. "Not even close."

Tali hurried into the elevator, leaving Garrus standing there in a state of shock. He had fully expected her to bite back but nothing in the galaxy could have prepared him for that. And worst of all, he did not resent her words – in fact, they confirmed his own doubts – nor did his love and respect for Tali lessen. He felt merely… numb, as if the pain were there, and acutely so, but not yet ready to make its move. It was lingering just above his head, waiting for his guard to slip before delivering the killing blow.

His back pressed against a nearby wall and he closed his eyes. Tali's pain was palpable, he could still feel it washing over him and, like waves against rock, eroding away his defences until there was nothing left but a heart ill-prepared to deal with the oncoming storm. It was at this point he realised they had just one thing left – hope. And so he clung unashamedly to the shaky and, perhaps, misguided belief that they would see Shepard again. He would persevere in his efforts to unite the crew but he would never stop believing in the man who brought them together.

Tali, on the other hand, felt like the living dead as she dragged herself towards the med bay, trying to block out the devastation she had seen in Garrus' expression, but walking through the ship that the turian helped bring back to life only reminded her of the utterly terrible deed. He was trying so very hard to do the right thing only for her to kick him when he was down. Her hatred of bullies caused guilt and self-loathing to fester in the pit of her stomach. Once more her vision grew blurry.

"Tali, dear, are you alright?" asked the always _proper_ voice of Doctor Karen Chakwas as she stood to meet her guest.

There was no answer to that question that wasn't an outright lie or a confession she hadn't the strength to make. She only now realised she was shaking from head to toe and dry-washing her hands, but in truth it started the moment she exited the elevator.

"Here, take a seat," Chakwas offered, placing an arm around Tali's shoulders and guiding her onto an examination table in the absence of any actual chairs.

Suddenly Tali started to cry. Quietly at first before she fell forward and was overcome by wracking sobs, her hands covering her mouthpiece but doing little to stifle the haunting sound of her echoing tears. Chakwas didn't miss a beat and quickly pulled the young quarian into a tight embrace – she said nothing, she felt no need to, choosing instead to gently rub Tali's back in the hope that this small gesture might remind her that she was not alone.

Though Chakwas kept such a thing to herself, her affection for Tali was borderline maternal. It all started on the original Normandy when Tali, armed with innocent pretences, enquired as to the nature of human dating customs and mating rituals. Chakwas, as she recalled, was forced to stifle her laughter so as not to offend Tali, although the quarian's transparency in matters concerning the commander was rather endearing. From that point on they had only grown closer, with Chakwas using every available opportunity to delicately nudge Tali towards pursuing Shepard. Of course, it was an easy stance for her to take, having seen the way Shepard looked at and spoke to Tali, but then she had long known that love had a way of blinding people to the truth.

The day she saw Shepard and Tali holding hands and walking through the mess hall, scarcely a week prior to his foolishly surrendering himself to the alliance, was perhaps one of the proudest days of her life. It proved to her that even on the darkest of days beautiful things could flourish.

The uncertainty of the situation changed nothing, as far as she was concerned.

Tali pulled away several minutes later, her breathing ragged, her head bowed low, and she whispered in a feeble voice, "Sorry."

"Nonsense," Chakwas shot back almost immediately. "You have _nothing _to be sorry for."

This only served to remind Tali of her most recent transgression, and she feared that the devastated look on Garrus Vakarian's face would linger, adding to the nightmarish deluge that was her subconscious.

"I actually came here for a reason," said Tali, trying to regain a modicum of composure, but her body language gave too much away. "I was wondering if you could prescribe a sedative."

"How much sleep have you been getting?" asked Chakwas, making every effort to initiate eye contact.

"I–" Tali hesitated because much as she was loath to reveal the truth, the mere prospect of another sleepless night frightened her. Yes, her nightmares were full of terrible, terrible things, but her waking mind offered no solace. She had decided after that first night that the monstrous images of which she dreamed were the lesser of two evils – the greater being the hard, unforgiving embrace of reality and the cold dread in her very bones. "Barely any," she finished quietly, her hands coming together in her lap.

"I noticed you've been sleeping in the commander's quarters," said Chakwas, with no hint of confusion or reproach. "Is that difficult?"

Tali looked up and Chakwas had never seen her eyes look so dim.

"It's all I have left," Tali replied quietly, dry washing her hands as her shoulders slumped forward. "Maybe it would be easier if I closed that door and never opened it again. Maybe I'm just hurting myself. But Shepard taught me not to take the easy option over the right one. And–" she paused and drew in a deep breath but it was no use. The tears returned and she began to quietly sob into her hands, "he taught me to follow my heart, no matter how much it hurt."

"Shepard _loves_ you, Tali," Chakwas insisted, emphasis on the present tense. "You have _that_. You will _always _have that."

"I'm afraid," she uttered, sharing for the first time the most profound truth in her heart. "It used to be I'd tell him that and he'd look at me… he'd smile… and whatever we were fighting, whatever force threatened to destroy us, it seemed suddenly that little bit less frightening. I _know_ he was afraid. He never tried to hide it from me. But he wouldn't let fear stay his hand for even a moment. I envied that. At my trial, he – no one has ever said such things about me. Not even my own father would go to such extremes to defend my honour. The other admirals said it was such a human trait, to foolishly charge headfirst into uncertainty. But I've never met another human like Shepard. It was not foolish," she added determinedly, her tears unrelenting. "It was brave and uncommonly kind. I wish I had a fraction of his strength."

"You are stronger than you think, Tali'Zorah," said Chakwas, again wasting no time. These were matters dear to her heart. "It was not easy for him, you know. To _lead_. To be the man everyone expected him to be. He was not born of greatness. He had to earn it, _every single day_. I suppose you know that he's an orphan. His mother and father never knew him – probably never cared. It made him very bitter and distrustful, unwilling to open up. I suppose then it was only natural he look to the alliance and become a soldier, to turn that hatred on the enemy and try and create some good out of the evil lurking in his heart."

Chakwas wore a deep frown. This was not a story she enjoyed sharing but it needed to be told. Tali, still sobbing gently, listened closely.

"When he was granted Spectre status his file was sealed and, fortunately for the alliance, before that point no one had much of an interest in William Shepard. Even after Elysium his celebrity was short-lived. This meant that people saw only his triumphs, and they shared in them, but he carried such sins in his heart. When he was fifteen he was involved in petty shoplifting. At sixteen, unlawful destruction of property. At seventeen, his whole life ahead of him, he was arrested for aggravated assault. He got into a fight with a man twice his size and won. The courts saw a troubled, dangerous boy. Perhaps the alliance would have seen the same thing if not for his IQ and immense biotic potential. They recruited him and brushed it all under the rug. But he never forgot his roots. He never let that anger go or stopped running from his past."

Chakwas reached up and placed her hands on Tali's shoulders, squeezing them gently. "Not until he met you," she continued. "You changed him, Tali. Not who he is at his core; after all he, more so than any man before him, was always _capable_ of greatness. But you showed him with your compassion and selflessness, and your love for your people, that he didn't need to be angry. That he didn't need to, as a man, hate the mother and father who had abandoned him as a boy. The darkness in his heart never disappeared but it could no longer hurt him. He gave his heart to you, my dear, and as long as you have it you can't abandon your hope. He _needs _you. He has always needed you."

Such things were not shared on a whim. If it were anyone else stood before her, Chakwas might have felt as if she were betraying Shepard's trust, but she shared his inability to watch people suffer, not least of all those she cared about deeply.

"I miss him," Tali whispered tenderly, feeling as if, after that, nothing but the truth would do.

"So do I," said Chakwas, her lips curling into a sad smile.

They fell into silence, Chakwas remaining close while Tali's tears faded and she finally managed to steady her breathing.

"Thank you," Tali said softly, smiling beneath her visor – a rare occurrence, but it felt nonetheless like a small victory. Of course, merely smiling intensified her guilt, but she made a promise to herself there and then, when everything seemed just that little bit brighter, that she would find a way to make it up to Garrus and let him know just how much she valued his friendship.

"Any time," Chakwas responded, offering a slight nod of her head. "Now let's see if we can help you get some sleep."

OOO

Tali returned to work later that day but remained distracted, first by the prospect of a good night's sleep, an impossible luxury she felt almost guilty for indulging, and then by that sliver of hope which her friends, much as she stubbornly tried not to let them in, were so insistent upon.

Tomorrow was a new day – a day without Shepard, yes, which inspired a sadness that was difficult to reconcile with any newfound hope, but something Chakwas said had struck a chord. They would not live forever in the dark. If he was out there – and she was sustained by the belief that he was – then she would find her way back home. They had both, in their own ways, made promises; promises that it would not end like _this_. Tali intended to keep her word and hold him to his.

She said goodnight to Adams, the only member of the engineering team remaining on the deck, and hurried into the elevator. With her hand she traced the outline of the sedative, a small vial of bright blue liquid tucked into her pouch, using this to provide the always necessary distraction and to keep her from overthinking every silly little thing. Once inside his quarters, however, it all seemed rather pointless.

The bed was made, sheets tucked in tight beneath the mattress. There were no glasses of water or any other signs that might momentarily trick her mind into believing Shepard still lived here. The empty picture frame was gone, the idea that he carried his photo of her, perhaps to his grave, proving to be a sort of bitter-sweet embodiment of love. On his desk, beside a silk plant, sat both the commemorative plaque and a possibility she refused to surrender to.

_Commander Shepard_

It made her angry to see his name flanked by some now meaningless rank. And for what reason? So they could pin medals on his grave and feel a little bit better about letting a great man sacrifice _everything_. Her fists clenched and her breath grew short. Chakwas' tale, while uplifting, was tragic in its own way. She had always known Shepard was troubled, that he wore his _own_ mask as a defence mechanism, but until that point she could not fathom the depths of his darkness. It changed nothing, of course, for she had fallen in love not with the mask, as was the case with many of his admirers, but the man beneath it.

The same man who had always been there for her; the man who would jump to her defence without sparing a thought towards the consequences; the man who saw beyond _her_ mask, barely noticed it, in fact, for he was too busy searching for her soul.

But he was, above all, the man who _waited_. He never pushed. He never toyed with her emotions or left her with doubts. He offered his unconditional love and when she snatched at his hand he simply smiled and with that smile said, '_take your time, Miss vas Normandy.'_

She had promised herself she wouldn't cry. Not again. It was exhausting, and while she remembered crying in his arms and having it feel almost cathartic, now it was merely hollow, her misery opening up dark paths which in her desperation she pursued. What she needed was clarity and energy. She needed to dig deep and do everything she could to help get the Normandy up and running again. Without something realistic to aim for, hope was meaningless. In fact, she wanted to turn tail and march down to the engineering deck at that very moment, just so she might tear her eyes away from that wretched plaque.

_Commander Shepard_

It was then that she began to sob, her arms wrapping tight around her mid-section in an effort to stop her shaking. But her shoulders felt weak; her entire being, in fact, seemed incapable of resisting. The misery felt profound, buried in her very bones, a promise of solitude and of cold dread, and though her body had no fight left, her mind refused to surrender to these dark paths. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and then suddenly released a feral scream that pierced her eardrums with a resounding force and left her not merely shaking but trembling madly, as if on the verge of frenzy.

She reached out for the plaque and threw it as hard as she could across the room, narrowly missing the empty fish tank and instead clattering against the metal staircase and rolling to the floor. She hardly heard a thing, too busy was she listening to her heartbeat, rapid and thunderous in her ears. And she could not still her chest, could not calm her breathing – it was too much, too soon, and she fell, back against the wall, knees tucked into her chest. The scream was still ringing in her ears, her senses felt overwhelmed, bloated by the sudden outpour that had nowhere else to go but back into her heart. Her muscles carried such tension that she feared for a moment she would never stand again, never lift herself from this spot on the floor, his floor, and so she sought what little solace she knew and closed her eyes, her hands either side of her helmet, and the darkness was not kind but it _wanted her_. She reached out a hand. She offered the darkness _everything_.

And then a voice. At first she thought it was a trick of the mind, the darkness and its seductive whispering, but when it replaced the ringing in her ears and inexplicably calmed her furious heart, her eyes shot open and flickered frantically about the room. There on the screen of his terminal something out of a dream, and for a moment she thought perhaps she had not opened her eyes at all, and this was merely the last trick of the darkness, the one that would finally break her.

"_Tali'Zorah." _It was his voice. His face on the screen smiling down at her. Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wide, but she said nothing. "_What is your father's name?" _the voice asked finally.

In a state of shock and desperate just to hear his voice, she attempted to answer but her throat was dry, her voice hoarse and it came out as an unintelligible croaking sound. Her hands flattened against the wall behind her and she pushed herself up, breathing deeply, not knowing what awaited her but desperate just to hear his voice again. Tali was on her knees, right in front of the terminal, and she spoke quietly but clearly into the audio receptor.

"Rael'Zorah."

The holographic image flickered for a moment before coming to life and perhaps it was just some strange coincidence, or the way the light reflected in this room, but he was looking right at her, lips twisted into that gentle, mischievous smile. She was transfixed for a moment, having thought she might never see it again, wanting to commit this moment to memory, but then her gaze lifted and she saw the sadness in his eyes and the sucker punch left her reeling.

"_Hello, Tali," _he began, and right away she could see his struggle, the mask that, to her eyes at least, did very little to hide his sorrow. Inside he was breaking. "_If you're listening to this it means one of two things. Either that I'm dead, or I'm lost. I hope for the latter but I fear the former. I want you to know that this isn't me conceding defeat." _The holographic figure swallowed harshly. _"But I couldn't leave without doing this. You're asleep right now,"_ he added, nodding his head towards the bed on the far side of the room, _"so I'm keeping my voice down. If you think that's cruel I'm sorry, but I couldn't do this without you nearby. I tried. I tried so many times. Every time it felt like a suicide note and that's not what this is."_

The figure looked away briefly, attempting to regain some composure, but she saw his jaw grow painfully tight. _"What do you say to the woman you love?" _he asked, lips pursed, and it was then she realised this was not rehearsed – this was pouring from his heart. _"I know all the things I should say: You will never be alone. You will meet someone. You will find happiness. But that's bullshit and you don't need to hear it. I love you, Tali. I have made promises. Promises I intended to keep. I promised I'd protect you from Saren. I promised I would save you from exile. I promised I would get you back your home world. I promised I would build you a home. Three out of four is not bad, right?"_

Tali didn't want to watch. She did not want to be a part of this morbid experiment. And yet she couldn't look away even as the tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She wished she could do as Shepard did and push her fingers against the tears, denying their very existence with so small a gesture.

"_But I have one last promise for you, Tali," _he continued, and she saw another of his tells as he began to worry the inside of his cheek with his teeth. _"And this one I won't break. If the nights seem lonely, if you look out into the stars and all you see is dark space, then know that that's how I feel. That's my world without you. When Cerberus rebuilt me and brought me back to life, it wasn't easy. I had to find that spark. I didn't truly open my eyes until Freedom's Progress – I had to wait until there was something worth seeing. And then I didn't breathe again until Haestrom. It was only then, when you came back to me, when you came home, that I started doing more than simply going through the motions. And so, Tali, my promise to you is this–"_

Suddenly Shepard paused, his head lowering, his fingers digging at the corners of his eyes just as she recalled. It was foolish but she wanted to reach out and touch him, to say to him what everyone on the Normandy had been trying to say to her for weeks – it's okay. _"I promise that there is no pain greater than the one I feel when I'm without you. And so while there's still a single, desperate breath in my lungs, I will not give up. I will not stop trying to find you. We are at the gates of hell, Tali; they're right outside the ship, calling to us. And even if that hell claims me I will endure. I will claw my way out and I'll come looking for you."_

Tali had instinctively shifted forward, her visor now so close to the screen that she could see nothing else but the holographic representation of the man she loved – the green of his eyes, his messy dark-blonde hair, the long scar on his neck that she had traced so many times with her fingertips. It was such an accurate and yet inadequate representation of the man. She breathed deep, arms hugging her shoulders, as she tried desperately to focus on his voice and the hope that it might never fade.

"_And now, Tali, I must be cruel only to be kind." _The figure paused and closed its eyes, taking a moment before continuing with a heavy heart. _"When I finish speaking – that's it. This message is programmed to play only once before being purged from the system. Depending on your mood, you might laugh. I couldn't hack my way out of a wet paper bag, I know. But this – this I made sure of."_

Tali wasn't laughing. At this new revelation her tears ceased, only to be replaced by something akin to betrayal, though in her utter shock she could not say for certain what it was, but it _hurt_.

"_I know you, Tali, just as I know myself. I would get lost in the brightness of your eyes, the sound of your voice – I would become a slave to your final words and no one could stop my fall. No one but you. So I'm doing what I have to. I am keeping you sane. Letting you cling to your memories without drowning in them. I know you miss me. Wherever I am, I miss you too. Find a way to endure, Tali, please. Please. And know that I am coming to find you. I have a promise to keep."_

Tali felt her chest grow tight. Her heart wanted to explode. His words, his promises, they touched her very soul. But her mind rebelled, anxious and full of fright, concerned only with the very real possibility that this was it. The end. Her life, her love, fading away right before her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers desperately close to the hologram. "N-no," she murmured quietly, her voice raw. "No, please. Don't leave me." Her voice broke, little more now than a strangled whisper. "Don't go."

The figure on the screen – Shepard, _her _Shepard – he tried so hard to smile, but instead he wept and then looked away suddenly as if ashamed. Tali knew that look. He was trying to remain strong when inside he was falling apart. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and he breathed deep through his nose. And then he looked up, he turned his gaze upon her, and she knew then, in that moment, that what little strength he had left went into his whispered voice.

"_I love you, Tali. Keelah se'lai."_

His lip was trembling, his eyes watering, and finally he forced that smile and then – _nothing_.

"N-no," she whispered, reaching out, but the static passed through her fingers like wisps of smoke. Her entire body was overcome with quivering and the cabin echoed with her sobs and her gentle whimpering. Her strength was rapidly fading but she held on dearly to what little she had left; she lifted herself onto her knees once more and she spoke as clearly into the audio receptor as her broken voice would allow.

"Rael'Zorah. Rael'Zorah. Rael'Zorah."

The silence was deafening and her voice grew yet more desperate, straining with every syllable to achieve the impossible.

"Rael'Zorah. Rael'Zorah. _Rael'Zorah._"

The echoing silence was haunting but as it lingered she found something else – something she could not quite put her finger on. She left the sedative by his desk and crawled slowly to the far side of the room, falling into bed and burrowing beneath the sheets. It was not hope that she found – for as bleak as her outlook had been, hope had never vanished altogether. Rather, it was something unique. Something in his eyes, in his voice. A gift of the heart.

It dawned on her finally as the darkness enveloped her and dreams, not nightmares, consumed her mind.

_Warmth. _

_His _warmth.

And it was beautiful.


	6. V: Inertia Creeps

A/N – A big thanks to those of you that have submitted reviews. It's very much appreciated.

* * *

They said it would be two months before he walked again – in reality, it was scarcely two weeks. Perhaps it was desperation, or sheer force of will. Perhaps it was the intake of painkillers which, for that fleeting moment of lucidity between agony and unconsciousness, offered a sense of invincibility. The great thing about miracles, in any case, was that no one bothered to ask any questions. His resurrection, a rare and enviable parlour trick, had proved as much.

His daily routine was an exercise in escapism. His physical therapists allowed him two measly hours in the gym, hardly ample time to rebuild his frail and battered bones. When he returned each day to his room the strange dance began in which he seemed to move into every inch of the room but for the space occupied by his bed. This he managed to systematically avoid whilst going through his regime of push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups – anything that helped shake the inertia. It was a counteractive measure, and an internal war, inspired by fear; fear born of paranoia – the idea that if they kept treating him like a vegetable then that's exactly what he would turn into.

There was also the small matter of his biotics. Certainly the prospect of levelling an entire city, as Jack had gleefully suggested, seemed almost farcical even to such a talented practitioner. And, ironically, the promise of God-like power was delivered into idle, crippled hands. It was rather like giving a child a nuclear warhead – power, yes, and such potential, but lacking the necessary knowhow and ability to make good on the threat. In this instance, desperation and sheer force of will achieved diminishing returns. Often the only thing he had to look forward to at the end of each day was a violent nosebleed and a headache that lasted until the following morning. His refusal to simply capitulate and die was slowly killing him.

His requests to be discharged were largely dismissed as foolish. At the very mention of leaving the hospital he was reminded, in no uncertain terms, of the importance of his rehabilitation, the sheer trauma his body had gone through in such a short space of time and then, as if it would somehow prove comforting, the fact that Earth was in ruins and slowly trying to rebuild and that he, in his current state, would be of little use. And he laughed at that – he laughed because anger required stimuli; and between the white walls, the sensory deprivation, and the bland and almost robotic personalities of the hospital staff, there was none to be found.

The visits continued, although on a smaller scale now that he was alive and awake and not their burden to bear. Miranda had come by to say sorry and then left without saying much else. Wrex, Grunt and Jacob had all briefly checked in, offering a much appreciated break from the monotony. Jack had not stayed for long, either, but left with the promise of a _surprise_ which was only slightly worrying.

And then, finally, Samara, who had been helping the peacekeeping forces trying to maintain order on Earth – at the mention of his misfiring biotics she had suggested meditation, just as they had done on the Normandy in their pursuit of the Collectors. Shepard agreed and he closed his eyes, he tried to centre himself, but there was no peace to be found anywhere within him. Everything was so _loud_, so chaotic, screaming at him in shrill, detached voices until he had to open his eyes and find refuge in reality. Samara said they would try again at another time. Shepard merely nodded his head numbly and offered so absent-minded a farewell that it was clear that any break in his solitude was merely an illusion.

OOO

Shepard was in the middle of his sit-ups when Jack turned up, bag flung over her shoulder and an air of excitement about her that he had not seen since they rained down biotic hellfire on Cerberus operatives at Grissom Academy.

"You look pleased with yourself," Shepard said in way of greeting as he lifted himself into a sitting position. "Did you just steal someone's lunch money?"

"Even _better_," Jack returned, slinging the bag at Shepard's feet. "I just came up with a cunning plan. And when you're getting your iron cross, your purple heart and the _millions_ of credits they're gonna' be pumping into your accounts for the rest of your days – _then_ you can thank me."

"If there's a severed head in here, Jack, I'm going to be very disappointed," he murmured, reaching for the zip and sliding the bag open. Inside was a pair of trainers, some jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket. "Oh," he deadpanned. "You shouldn't have."

"That's not the surprise, idiot," she replied somewhat irritably as one of her combat boots gently kicked the bag. "We're breaking you out of here."

Shepard raised his brow but couldn't hide the small smile. "_My hero_. I did have a date planned with the vending machine but you've _clearly_ gone to a lot of trouble here," he added, nodding his head towards the crumpled up clothing, "so I can hardly say no."

"Well I figured you _could _keep the dress," she said, shrugging, "but I wasn't sure you wanted _that_ kind of attention."

"Point taken."

Shepard threw the bag onto the bed and began to undress, and Jack merely rolled her eyes as he waited for her to turn around before continuing.

"I hope they're the right size," Jack offered although it was clear from her tone that she didn't really care. "I figured tall, skinny – how hard can it be?"

"Your concern is touching, Jack," he replied, pulling the t-shirt over his head and wincing slightly at the pain caused by the sudden contortion of his torso. More so than his modesty, he was glad he could keep that to himself. "Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" she replied, mildly amused. "A place like this'll drain the life right outta' you. I figure just about any where's better."

Shepard buttoned up his jeans and pulled the leather jacket over his shoulders, relieved beyond belief that there was no N7 logo stitched into the breast. With Jack's back still turned on him he retrieved the bottle of painkillers from his bedside and stealthily pocketed them. If he were in the habit of self-delusion he might have said to himself _just in case_. As things stood, he was only too aware of his reliance on medication.

"We ready?" he asked, kicking the now empty bag under the bed.

"Almost," she replied, reaching into her pocket and retrieving first a pair of aviator sun-glasses and then an elastic band. "If we're going to make it out of here in once piece then you're going to need to cover up, pretty boy."

Shepard gave her a withering look but took the offered items, putting the sunglasses on and tying his hair into a ponytail. Jack measured him with her stare, her lips pursed. After a moment she lifted herself onto her toes and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

"That'll have to do," she said resignedly. "We don't want the Shepardites to trample us. It's fucking madness out there."

Jack was not exaggerating either, a fact Shepard quickly discovered as they bypassed the main doorway which was mobbed with men and women of all ages. Some of them carried pictures and, amusingly, some held signs high above the heads of others, the messages ranging from 'Y_ou da man, Shepard!'_ to _'Shepard, will you marry me?'_ As Jack led him towards the hospital's administration area, and the little known exit therein, she made the most of every opportunity to tease him about his horde of admirers.

This being Jack, it hadn't taken her long to get to know her surroundings and she was able to effortlessly guide them through every back alley and housing estate in the area. They kept walking, mostly in silence, their heads down as they tried to remain incognito, until Jack led him into a bar that, based on both the exterior and interior décor, looked fairly swanky, but owing to circumstances had clearly chosen to do away with a dress code and be more accepting of their clientele. They found a seat in the back, ordered a couple of beers and fell so easily into conversation that if Shepard had stopped to close his eyes he might have thought, just for a brief moment, they were back in the bowels of the Normandy and talking mindless drivel into the early hours of the morning.

"So what's with the hair?" Jack asked bluntly as she took a swig of beer. "You worried a hospital haircut will cost extra?"

Shepard stared at her for a long moment, a small smile playing on his lips. "I joined a cult. Decided I'd keep the hair."

Unbeknownst to Jack, who was tickled by the remark, it was not so far from the truth.

"So what are your plans?" Shepard continued, changing the subject. "I mean – when all this is over, when the relays are back online."

Jack shrugged. "I figure I've only ever been good at two things. Piracy and teaching. Piracy may pay better but with no Reapers or Collectors to hunt down, boy scouts like you will be all over my tail. For once in my life maybe I better stick with the safe option."

Shepard's lips pressed into a thin line and he laughed through his nose. "You remember that offer you made me?"

"What offer?" she asked, lifting an immaculate brow.

"Back on the Normandy. Me and you. Steal a ship, raise hell. Forget the galaxy and its problem."

"Yeah," she replied, nodding. "Yeah, I remember. I also remember the little old lady you helped cross the road after you shot me down."

"How about it?" he asked her, quite seriously.

Jack could only stare at him, wide-eyed.

"Steal a ship," Shepard elaborated. "Get the fuck out of here. Go find the Normandy. It's not quite _raising hell_, but it's more our style. More than _this_, at least," he added, gesturing with his raised beer bottle their dark little corner of the swanky wine bar.

"You're for real, aren't you?" Jack asked after a moment, leaning forward in her seat, her brow furrowed. "It's happened. It's finally happened. You've snapped. You've lost your mind."

"I haven't snapped, Jack," he said quietly. "It's just… for the first time in years I've actually been able to stop and think. I fought Seran, Sovereign, the Collectors, Cerberus, the Reapers. I came back from the dead. And never once did I stop and look around. Maybe that's why I succeeded. I don't know. Maybe I was the unstoppable force. Someone once told me you make a choice in life. Whether you shape your destiny or whether your destiny shapes you. I thought I was in control." He took a swallow of beer and curled his long fingers around the bottle, gently tapping the glass. "I was wrong."

Jack fell into a sort of stunned silence but it didn't last long. "Jesus, Shepard," she barked back at him. "Don't put this shit on me. That's not fair. I mean, so fucking what?" she quickly added. "You were used. Welcome to the real world."

Shepard suddenly turned to face her, his jaw tense. "I thought you of all people would understand. You've spent your whole life running from your problems, escaping any sense of attachment or responsibility along the way. Why is it so wrong when I want to do it?"

Jack was the sort of person used to barking and not having someone bark back. The twist in this tale made her pause a moment. "Hey, fuck you," she said with an eloquence all her own, "I'm your friend not your shrink. If you have to use a fuck-up like me to justify yourself then you're doing it wrong."

Shepard gave a petulant shrug. "I'm not feeling sorry for myself. And I certainly don't want you to feel sorry for me."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" she snapped.

This time Shepard thought about it, and when he realised the answer he gave a rueful shake of the head. "I'm a solider, Jack. I wasn't always but this is what I _know_. I think… fuck–" He dropped his head into his hands, his hair falling loose either side of his face. When he spoke again his voice was a whisper. "I need someone to say that it's okay. That's pathetic, isn't it? I need an order. I need a _yes sir_. I need a crew and a ship."

Shepard looked up, he looked Jack right in the eye, and she had never seen such sorrow.

"I need a war," he finished, the word catching in his throat, the bitter taste, like bile, seemingly strangling him.

Jack felt utterly useless as she held her hands together shakily, picking at the skin around her fingernails, wondering whether it was safer to delve into his subconscious or to pull out her pistol and suggest Russian roulette. Finally she shook her head, ridding herself of that gnawing feeling at the back of her skull – cowardice, she believed they called it – and she met his gaze.

"What kinda' ship?" she asked, staring at him until finally he caught on and his lips lifted into a smile.

OOO

Almost two hours later and the liquor was still flowing. Jack had briefly made friends with a pair of krogan showing off their Shepard VI at the bar, much to the real Shepard's amusement, forcing the machine to regale the room with gems such as '_there is nothing this galaxy can't beat if we all work together!' _and '_I delete data like you on the way to real errors_.'

By the time Jack returned to the table Shepard had his head in his heads, partly to hide his face from the still oblivious occupants of the room and partly to stifle his laughter.

"Drink up," she insisted, sliding a beer and a shot glass across the table, "these are on the krogan. I told 'em you were Shepard's biggest fan. Not far from the truth."

Shepard rolled his eyes and was about to drain his shot glass when Jack grabbed his arm and stopped him, nearly spilling the drink.

"You know, I think we're drunk enough to start acting like teenagers," she said, slurring slightly. "We're playing _I never_. You don't get a say in it."

Shepard laughed lightly and shook his head but it didn't take long for him to relent. "_Fine_," he replied. "But I'm going first."

Jack held up her hands as a sign of surrender.

"Okay," Shepard began, thinking for just a moment. "I never blew up a moon."

Jack brought her glass to her smiling lips and drank, but she was quick to fire back. "I never blew up a Citadel."

Shepard started to laugh and quickly downed the shot, hardly savouring the aniseed aftertaste but shaking it off. "I never _actually_ joined a cult."

She gave a huff, feigning irritation, and then took a swig of beer. "I never went toe to toe with a Reaper just to impress my girlfriend."

Shepard closed his eyes, pushed his hand through his hair and drank.

Jack eyed him amusedly, looking as if she were about to burst out into laughter. "Jesus, Shepard, you are so whipped," she teased.

"Yeah, yeah," he replied, waving his hand dismissively. Suddenly he leaned in close, watching her expression, the anticipation causing his smile to deepen. "I never… mentally undressed Miranda Lawson."

Jack's eyes widened and she exhaled heavily through her nose. Shepard wore a knowing look that she wanted desperately to slap right off his face. Her hand hesitated over her beer bottle but in the end she took the smallest sip possible and then turned her head, chin lifting.

"I knew it!" Shepard cried and pointed his finger at her, forgetting for a moment that he was trying to be discrete. "After the Collector base… you thought no one was looking..."

Jack whirled around in her seat and pointed her own finger in Shepard's face. "Fuck you, Shepard. Maybe if the Normandy wasn't a hotpot of sexual repression I might not need to let my mind wander."

"Was it good?" he asked suddenly, a teasing lilt to his tone.

"Was wha–" Jack replied, confused for all of a second before realisation dawned. "Oh, you're such a jackass. Go take a leap off a tall building."

Shepard placed the back of his hand over his mouth, desperately trying to stifle his laughter. "Hey," he said defensively, "you wanted to play the game. Does this mean I win?"

"It means you can go fuck yourself," she said crossly, her arms folding underneath her chest as she rocked back in her seat.

They fell into silence, each nursing their drinks, Jack staring at the wall behind Shepard and practically scowling while he wore this insufferable and inane little grin that it was her great displeasure to meet again. And while cheering Shepard up had been her intent, the idea that it had been at _her_ expense truly irritated her. Jack couldn't stand to _lose_ even when there was no prize to be had.

"If it makes you feel any better," Shepard began, tilting his head in an attempt to meet her gaze, "she _was _genetically engineered to be gawked at. So it was hardly fair on you."

"Yeah?" Jack sneered, head snapping around. "Then how come you resisted the _urge_? Did Tali have your balls in a vice?"

Shepard stared at her numbly for a moment and then forced a sad smile. It was not something he wished to think about and yet, suddenly, it seemed inevitable.

"Ah, shit." Jack sighed. "Is this where I'm supposed to ask you if you miss her?" She folded her arms again and huffed. "Well, do ya'?"

"Yes," he said simply, reaching for his beer. "I miss her."

"Shepard, even I miss her. Fuck it, I miss every misfit that ever called the Normandy home. And it's not fair. Its bullshit," she said, shrugging. "This is _all _such bullshit. But do me a favour and keep it to yourself until we rescue her from whatever mess she's gotten herself into. I can't deal with this shit otherwise."

His gaze suddenly took on a cold edge. "You think we will? Find them, I mean."

Jack thought the question over for a moment and then rocked forward in her seat, her voice low. "You know, I thought I'd be left in cryogenic stasis until the ant people had taken over the Galaxy. I thought I'd die on the Collector base. I thought I'd watch Cerberus butcher my students and turn me into something monstrous. I thought my first visit to Earth would be my last, and that I'd watch the Reapers reduce this planet to ash. I'm _sick_ of betting against you, Shepard. I'm sick of being proved wrong. I don't know how you do it, whether it's nerve or sheer dumb luck, but every time I stare into the abyss I'm glad I'm on your side."

Shepard leaned across the table and raised his beer bottle, clinking it against hers. "Here's to dumb luck, then. Let's hope it's not done with me just yet."

OOO

By the time they said farewell and went their separate ways it was nearly midnight. Jack assured him she had a place to stay, somewhere nearby, somewhere _warm_, and he was rather envious as he navigated a particularly frigid winter's evening, trying as best he could to retrace their steps and find his way back to the hospital. He had his jacket zipped up, his hood pulled over his head and his hands buried in his pockets, but having lived the last ten or so years of his life aboard starships he had a rather limited understanding of _cold._

His steps wavered slightly, his gait uneven, but he felt lucid enough and slowly sensed the alcohol's effect on his system wearing thin. With this came the return of his pain, centred mainly on his spine but his limbs ached. He forced down a handful of painkillers, the dry swallow causing him to wince, and then continued on, routinely keeping to the shadows and lowering his head at every passer-by.

His suggestion to Jack had not been about galactic piracy, not really, though he allowed the hint to linger just to pique her interest. It was much more about an escape. The Alliance wanted to make him out to be a big damn hero. Keep him grounded on Earth, cutting ribbons, kissing babies – they wanted him to be their poster boy going forward. In their eyes he was all things but a man. He was the Lion of Elysium. The first human Spectre. The Hero of the Citadel. The Reaper-killer.

Shepard had always known that these were just empty words. He allowed them for the good of humanity, of the Alliance, but now it seemed they needed him no more. Because those that did truly need him were lost, cast adrift in an infinite universe. And it was this thought that he kept going back to, this thought that betrayed his promise – how on earth could they possibly hope to find the Normandy? It was a grain of sand in the desert, a drop of salt in the ocean, and though his resume listed many seemingly impossible feats, he realised that this was not _his_ miracle to pull off. It was theirs. Wherever they were, whatever rock they had landed on, it was up to them to find their way back home.

And yet reaching this realisation did not change anything. The inertia still proved suffocating, the need to escape those same four walls in which he was imprisoned, and do something, _anything_. It was common in the military to make jokes about one's own belated retirement but Shepard was not _done_. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He was barely thirty and, despite his chronic pain, remained able-bodied. His comment about the unstoppable force returned to him then. Having sat for weeks in a hospital bed he thought perhaps that such an idea was merely the hubris of humanity, something about which he had heard a great deal in his time involved with interspecies politics; and yet having lifted himself out of bed, having made a plan, no matter how flawed, he felt suddenly compelled to persevere and march forward along whichever path called to him.

It was at that exact moment that he heard a piercing scream echo from somewhere nearby. He started, growing visibly tense, and then immediately scanned the surrounding area for the source. He was half-jogging, half-limping down a narrow alley leading into a refuse area when he saw a girl, who looked to be in her teens, breathless, pale as a sheet, and wearing a wide-eyed stare. As he rounded the corner and came to a halt he saw what she saw and immediately felt his stomach turn.

There was a corpse hanging from the chainmail fence like an effigy, bleeding like a stuck pig and with intricate carvings etched into its dead flesh. And while it was a fresh kill there was no doubt in his mind that it _was_ a kill, and that any minute, flickering signs of life had long since been snuffed out.

Shepard approached, the back of his hand instinctively lifting to cover his nose as a feral smell of death and decay nearly overwhelmed him, and he looked into the dead eyes of a man seemingly not much older than him. There were signs of struggle all over, both in the bloodstains on the alley floor and in the man's wounds, which even by the forgiving standards of a back-alley stabbing were decidedly messy.

This was not a crime of passion and certainly it was no accident. Whoever did this, he realised, _wanted_ it to be seen, to be discussed, to be reviled. This was a show, a farce, as if all the sickness in the world had pooled together in order to remind them that their misery was not over. Not even close.

Suddenly it occurred to Shepard where he was and he spun around, wrapping his arm around the pale, shaking girl and guiding her far enough away that she was no longer witness to that massacre. He told her it would be okay, and the words didn't sound nearly as empty as he'd expected. Once he had her name he used his omni-tool to contact the authorities and then he waited, embracing the frightened, tearful girl the entire time.

"Who could do such a thing?" the girl whispered into his chest, the front of his shirt stained with tears and mascara.

"Someone very sick," he replied quietly, rubbing her back, the gesture by now a natural reflex whenever faced with someone's suffering. It seemed to follow him around.

Over the girl's shoulder he could see the body, still hanging limp, blood dripping from the toe of its boot. It was a strange sort of epiphany, leaving a decidedly uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but nonetheless he found his purpose, his path, something at which to direct the unstoppable force. Whoever or _whatever _had committed this terrible act was _waiting_, wanting to be found.

And Shepard was willing to oblige.


	7. VI: In the Belly of the Beast

A/N – Just a quick note to say that there is a new prologue in place of the old one. It hasn't drastically changed anything, but I wasn't entirely satisfied with the existing one and so it was re-written with a different approach.

* * *

Jeff 'Joker' Moreau had taken to watching Calypso's sunset in an almost ritualistic way. Each evening at the same hour, and from the same seat in the cockpit, and always wondering _why_ he did so, and indeed _what_ this new habit was attempting to replace. Of course, he _knew_, but knowing and wondering were two quite different things, and one could wonder endlessly about even the most undeniable of truths and not grow weary.

In a strange sense, and just as one might look to the stars, Joker saw his fate written in the setting sun. Every day he would wait and every day he would see the same thing. Scattered light in oranges and reds, the deep blue of the evening sky, the pinkish hue of cloud cover – it was beautiful in that way he would never articulate, in the eye and not on the tongue.

Yet for all its beauty, a sunset was defined by the inevitable absence of the sun and, what's more, the inky cloak into which those colours did fade.

And so like all truly beautiful things, it was followed by darkness and silence and cold.

Perhaps this made all the more remarkable the reverence with which it was observed. Joker was a clown but not a fool. The importance of those that he had lost or that had, in one fell swoop, been ripped away, was, as with the setting sun, both illuminated and defined in its now apparent absence.

Shepard.

EDI.

The brother and the lover.

A brother with whom he shared not a drop of a blood and a lover without a beating heart. It was these strange ironies that made the burden doubly difficult to bear. They were by their very nature irreplaceable and yet, being forced to look only ahead, there was no hope without entertaining the prospect that he _could_ move on, find someone and something else in a suddenly diminished Galaxy.

Joker took to any existential crisis like a turian to water and it showed. When finally the sun had set and the cockpit was filled with darkness, silence, and cold, he was no closer to an answer. And perhaps, he mused, that was simply what was written. Not a promise of hope, but a promise nonetheless.

OOO

In the weeks following her outburst on the engineering deck, in which she verbally assaulted Garrus Vakarian, one of her dearest friends, Tali had spent much time preparing and rehearsing an apology and very little time – that was to say none at all – actually extending the long overdue peace offering.

Her days remained filled with long, tedious and, often, repetitive work alongside the other engineers as they worked towards undoing the nearly catastrophic damage to the FTL drive. Her evenings, on the other hand, whilst no longer filled with tears and mournful silence, were, nevertheless, quiet affairs spent in solitude. Her exhaustion was real, for at the end of each day she ached mentally and physically, but it was also the convenient excuse that had allowed her to go so long without apologising.

On the far side of the engineering deck, Ken and Gabby were quietly chatting away. Between them, Adams was looking to the ceiling, likely going over equations in his head. They had in recent weeks been mercifully unobtrusive and Tali, feeling more like herself than she had in a long time, decided upon a different kind of peace offering. Perhaps it would help with the real thing.

"Any plans tonight?" she asked, naturally feeling somewhat awkward. Ken and Gabby turned towards her, almost in sync, clearly surprised by the question but not letting their silence linger.

"Aye," Ken was the first to respond, "I told Vakarian I'd win back my credits. And you mark my words – he's quakin' in his little space boots."

Gabby laughed shortly. "Would they be the credits you lost last night? Or the night before?"

"Go easy, woman," said Ken, shaking his head. "Whose side are you on?"

"Not yours," she replied amusedly. "I'm backing the side that always wins."

Before Ken had a chance to fire back and begin the bickering anew, Gabby turned towards Tali and said, "You're welcome to join us. Kenneth could always do with one more person to relieve him of his credits."

"Don't listen to her," Ken interjected before Tali had a chance, "I've got a plan this time."

Gabby smiled sweetly. "Unless it involves sneaking into Garrus' quarters in the dead of night, I think you're in for a letdown. _Anyway_," she continued, gently and discreetly nudging Ken with her elbow. "What do you say, Tali? You interested?"

Just as Tali was not blind to the unresolved and rather belligerent sexual tension shared between the two engineers, she was likewise aware that Gabby's gentle prodding was about more than poker.

"Maybe," Tali offered, trying to sound convincing. "I still have to repair these couplings and get the secondary capacitor back online. But maybe."

Gabby got the hint and nodded her head, though she was not above one last sneaky attempt to get through to the quarian. "Okay," she said casually, turning her head back towards her console, "we'll save you a seat."

Tali spent the next few hours weighing the pros and cons of her three options for the evening. One, go play poker and try to ignore the lingering feeling that someone very important was missing. Two, swallow her pride, march into the main battery and finally apologise to Garrus Vakarian. And three, the easy option and the one on which she'd relied these last few weeks – sneak into the elevator and hide away in the captain's quarters until morning.

Strangely enough, she didn't decide. Not really. Instead she drifted absent-mindedly from her work station towards the elevator and, without really _thinking_ or, in any case, acknowledging the act, pressed her thumb against the button for level three and wandered into the mess hall.

It was late and dinner was almost over, meaning only a handful of crewmembers remained, eating or otherwise engaged in conversation. Doctor Chakwas flashed her a smile through the med-bay window as she passed, which she returned with a slight nod of her head.

She came to a standstill outside the main battery, an area of the ship which was so fundamentally _his_ territory that it might as well have been renamed '_Garrus Vakarian's Domain'_. The moment she lifted her omni-tool and opened the door, the many hours spent rehearsing and the many apologies prepared all seemed rather hollow – embarrassing, even. There was no expectancy or impatience in his expression, and certainly no hint of reproach. It could never be said that Garrus was quick to forgive, many tortured souls across the Galaxy would attest to that, but he was, in this case at least, far more accommodating than she'd anticipated.

"Garrus," she began tentatively, her hands coming together in her lap.

"Tali," he replied coolly.

She sighed heavily. "I owe you an apology. The way I spoke to you the other day was unacceptable. It was cruel and uncalled for." Her chin lifted and she took a deep breath. "But most importantly I wanted to say that I was wrong. Very, very wrong."

Garrus leaned forward. "It's okay, Tali. Honestly."

"No, Garrus," she replied quickly. "It's not okay. Not even close. Stepping on each other's toes in a fire fight, that's _okay_. This is – I don't know _why _I said those things. I don't know where they came from."

"You were hurting," he pointed out rather plainly. "Worse than any of us. And I kept niggling away at you. I should have let it go."

"No," she insisted, shaking her head. "That doesn't excuse what I said. I was–" she paused to think of the word. "_Poisonous._" She swallowed and her voice dropped. "That's not who I am, Garrus. I don't want to be that person."

Garrus took a step closer and gently laid his hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "You won't know this story. Few do. It was back on the Citadel when we were hunting Saren, just before we met you. Obviously I didn't know Shepard that well in those days. Maybe that's why this stays with me.

"Anyway, we were chasing down every lead we could find. We were frustrated and desperate. I suggested we head to Chora's Den, get a drink and unwind for five minutes. It took some persuading but finally he relented. So, as we're walking into the place someone stops us. A human, looked to be about Shepard's age. He called himself _Finch_. I didn't think much of him at the time but it was only as I got to know Shepard better that I came to realise just how _stupid _Finch was.

"You see, they were in some gang together on Earth. The Reds, I believe they were called. And someone from Finch's _posse_," said Garrus, emphasising the word with air quotes, a human expression that nonetheless suited turian hands, "had been hauled in for some petty crime or another. Now, it wasn't that he wanted Shepard's help. Or at least, _that_ wasn't what told me we were dealing with a prize moron. Half the galaxy has got on their knees in front of Shepard and asked for a favour. But when he got in Shepard's face – and bear in mind this Finch character was a good few inches shorter than Shepard – and threatened him, well… at the time I didn't know what to think. And now? Let's just say even _I_ would take pity on the boy, pull him aside and whisper in his ear the one word that might save his life: _run_."

It was not her intention but Tali's voice came out as a whisper. "And what _did_ Shepard do?"

Garrus let out a sort of snarling laugh. "He didn't move. Or at least, I didn't see it. You have to understand, my opinion of humans at this point was uninspired, to say the least. I'd met my share, even fought alongside them, but Shepard was… something different. Just like that, he was upon him, his forearm threatening to crush Finch's windpipe as this brilliant biotic aura surrounded him. Did I feel bad? Yeah. I felt bad for whichever poor soul drew the short straw and had to clean what was left of Finch off the walls."

Tali shook her head. "_Funny_, Garrus."

"I'm serious," he replied defensively, his arms folding over his chest. "I thought the look in Shepard's eye was going to reduce this man to a bloody pulp. And I almost wish it had because what came next was much more frightening. Shepard grabbed a hold of his own collar and yanked it down, and waited for Finch to notice the scar on his neck. When he finally did, that's when I saw the fire in Shepard's eyes die away and I quickly understood why. There are as yet undiscovered ice dwarfs in the far reaches of space that are not nearly as cold as Shepard's tone. Just like that, he turned. And you could_ feel_ it. He had ice in his veins.

"He looked Finch right in the eye and he pointed to his scar, tracing it from one corner to the other like a smile. And then he simply said, '_this was what your friends gave me. It was my going away present. Pretty, I know. ' _I'll always remember those words, just as I'll always remember the look in Finch's eye. And okay, I didn't _see_ him piss his pants but I didn't need to. Shepard wasn't looking for my respect. That's not his style. But he found it anyway."

"What? That's it?" asked Tali, her brow furrowing beneath her mask.

"Oh, no," Garrus answered, flashing the beginnings of a smile, "that's not even the best bit. Shepard leaned in close and he spoke just one word, and in that one word struck the fear of God into Finch's heart. He said '_go',_ and Finch did. The way he ran, like a man possessed by monstrous fear, you would have thought Shepard threatened to massacre his entire family."

Tali blinked. "I don't get it," she said, at a loss. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"You didn't see the anger in his eyes. Like a fire lit by a lifetime of hatred and barely repressed self-loathing. And he just… let it go. Let Finch go, too. _That_ frightened me. It was almost palpable, even from where I was standing. Like it was making his skin crawl. But to be so capable of such evil, to have it beating in your heart, reflected in your eyes and then to just… breathe and let it go. I don't understand it. It's like magic, like a trick of the eye. You can see it. Acknowledge it. But you can never really comprehend what he did or how he did it."

Tali nodded slowly. "And what's that got to do with me behaving like a bosh'tet?"

"Don't you see?" he asked, but was quick to continue. "Just because we're capable of evil, just because we let vile words slip and occasionally lose control, that's _not _who we are. I _know_ who you are, Tali. You are kind and selfless – I've never met a person with a bad word to say about you. You are not the distraught, troubled woman that I was wrong to corner. And, likewise, Shepard is not a vengeful, jilted gangster on the verge of frenzy. We are not defined by our best or our worst. It's everything in between." Garrus paused and gave her a pointed look. "Just because we're afraid to let our masks slip, that doesn't mean there's a monster lurking below."

Tali again nodded and then lifted her chin, intending to reply, but words escaped her. After a brief silence she finally found her voice. "I _really_ didn't mean what I said, you know."

"I know," he said simply.

"There's a reason you're his closest friend," she whispered, head lowering. "And there's a reason he wanted you by his side when we marched on the gates of hell. No, you're not Shepard," she conceded, looking upwards and meeting his gaze. "But you're a good man. With one exception, you're the best I know. I'm sorry I let you think otherwise."

Garrus flashed that strange, lipless smile and it was that, more so than her confession, which lifted some small measure of her lingering guilt. They fell easily into conversation after that, it quickly becoming apparent that they had each missed one another's company. It was only as the hour grew late that Garrus decided to broach a delicate subject.

"I have a favour to ask."

"Oh?" she replied, genuinely curious.

"It's about Joker."

Tali swallowed. "Oh."

"I know. It'd be nice if we could take two steps around here without encountering another tortured soul." Garrus paused and gave a dry laugh. "You know, I miss the terrorist organisations. I miss the rogue Spectres. I miss the bloodthirsty abominations trying to rip out our still beating hearts. At least we knew what to do with them. I was good with the heavy-handed approach. Not so much with the shoulder to cry on."

Tali smiled beneath her mask but the gesture soon turned bittersweet. "The more you care, the deeper it stings. I still remember when the original Normandy was destroyed and we all thought Shepard was dead. You convince yourself that you'll never feel pain like that again. I thought I'd spend my life watching the hole in my heart grow wider. But then he came back, he said '_I love you',_ and he charged headlong towards a Reaper. And I felt it again. And again." She sighed. "I don't know exactly how Joker's feeling. But it's not good."

"And that's where the favour comes in. Because I think if you're there this'll mean a lot more." He took her silence as encouragement to continue. "In my experience, the only thing worse than people reminding you of what you've lost is everyone simply forgetting that it existed. EDI, for all intents and purposes, _was _the Normandy. But what's more, she was a member of the crew. And you know what? I've hardly heard her name since we left Earth. It's easy, I suppose, to pretend she was just a machine, but everyone aboard knows deep down that she was so much more than that."

"What do you propose?" asked Tali.

"I–" he began but thought better of it, deciding upon a disclaimer instead. "This might sound crazy. No, scratch that – it _does_. But it's an important gesture. One that would have mattered to EDI. And it would have mattered to Shepard, too. EDI's body is still in the AI core. And," he paused, instinctively trying to read her reaction only to be met with the shimmering purple of her visor, "if it were any other crewmember we would have buried her and paid our respects. Why should it be any different with EDI?"

It was not the answer Tali was expecting and it was, at least by any stretch of _her_ imagination, a crazy idea. She had been brought up to fear artificial intelligence, to treat it with a distrust that it had, certainly in every previous iteration, endeavoured to earn. And yet now, thinking back upon it, she realised that EDI was as much her friend as Garrus, as Joker, as Ash, as Gabby and Ken or as Jack. Her list of closest friends mirrored the Normandy's manifest, past and present. Her fear of machines was no better, she realised, than the Galaxy-wide prejudice against the quarians.

"I think it's a good idea," she replied finally.

Garrus' eyes widened. "Really?"

"Don't look so shocked," she said simply. "It's not your first."

"I– well–" Garrus faltered. "_Yeah_. Thanks, Tali."

OOO

The fact that Garrus Vakarian was acting captain of the Normandy was a point largely left unsaid. It was Shepard's wish, and indeed Garrus was the most suitable candidate, but it was much too soon, as well as entirely inappropriate, to make anything official. The wounds were still fresh, the trauma relived with alarming clarity each night, and as much as he missed his friend he knew he was not alone in that respect.

Fortunately, while it was an unofficial position he still commanded the respect of those aboard the Normandy. It had not taken much to talk the crew into attending EDI's _funeral,_ a word he desperately tried to avoid using for a number of reasons. Only two people had required any real persuasion. There was Joker who, naturally, made some vain attempt to dismiss the whole thing as, at best, offensive and pointless and, at worst, utterly immoral. Garrus of course saw right through the ruse and in the end decided upon tough love, telling Joker that if he didn't join the rest of the crew outside willingly then Jimmy Vega would drag his brittle bones out there and sit him front and centre.

The other crewmember to object was, strangely enough, Engineer Adams who, as far as Garrus knew, and in so much as Tali had confirmed, was on good terms with EDI. Their roles aboard the ship forced them to interact on a regular basis and while Adams was, perhaps, a little old school, he had seemingly embraced both EDI's personality and her importance to the ship. His protest had hardly been vehement and, in the end, he did relent, but Garrus was left with the suspicion that EDI meant more to Adams than he let on.

Gabby and Ken had converted an inert stasis pod into a sort of makeshift coffin in which they placed her body and the two of them helped carry it, along with Vega, Garrus, Tali and Samantha Traynor, out of the ship and onto the planet's surface. A hole had been dug several hours earlier and a number of ensigns had volunteered to set up a perimeter just in case they drew the ire of the native wildlife.

They formed a circle around the coffin, standing quietly in unison. The only exception was Joker who was off to one side, staring out in the vast expanse of jungle and hurling small stones into the air with such ferocity that Garrus was afraid his arm might break under the strain.

As an intelligent and pragmatic creature, Garrus didn't want to say anything – didn't feel it was his place. As well as he knew EDI, he was by no means as close to her as others aboard the Normandy. And yet, _as _acting captain, whether official or not, he knew it was not right to allow the awkward silence to linger and so took the initiative.

"I know we don't need another reminder of what we've lost," he began solemnly. "That burden weighs heavy on us all. But I feel it's important we pay our respects to someone who always watched over us. EDI was a friend. She was a creature with an extraordinary curiosity and thirst for life. But I believe that no lesson was more important to EDI than learning how to love." Garrus' head lifted, acknowledging but not dwelling on the averted stares of his fellow crewmembers, and he looked out towards the edge of the perimeter, hoping Joker might jump in and save him.

There was only silence.

After several moments Tali stepped forward and cleared her throat. "I wasn't always on the best of terms with EDI," she reminisced, smiling sadly beneath her visor. "I remember when I first heard the voice of the Normandy's AI, and my overwhelming urge to sneak into engineering and flush her blue box out of the airlock. As I stand here today," she added, shoulders lifting briefly, "I am not ashamed to admit that I was wrong. EDI was strong and she was kind and she never stopped thinking of others. Whatever doubts I had were quashed when I realised one very important truth – a truth that binds us together. One day I finally saw her soul. And it was beautiful."

Garrus gave her a look as if to say thanks, but when he peered over once more at Joker the man was standing eerily still and continuing to stare off into space. It was becoming a recurring theme lately in which he envisioned these scenarios playing out perfectly only to be met, ultimately, with disaster.

Liara was next to cut in. "I miss her intuition. I miss her ability to see right through me. I remember after Thessia I was so distraught. I escaped to my quarters and I buried my head under my pillow. When I went to lock the door a few minutes later I realised it was already locked. This gave me pause. I looked up and I almost smiled, whispering my _thank you_ into the air. EDI said nothing. She didn't need to. She kept it locked until I was ready and somehow she just… _knew_. And when Shepard came knocking at my door and she allowed him in, I said another thank you under my breath – just loud enough for her to hear." Liara let her gaze sweep over her friends before settling finally on the coffin. "Thank you, EDI."

This time Garrus didn't even have a chance to spare Joker a glance before Gabby began to speak.

"EDI was not just brilliant but she was our friend. I used to think it was strange when I'd hear her voice from out of nowhere, often in the dead of night, telling me to sleep, or to eat, or to otherwise look after myself. I used to think this was something Cerberus installed when they built her blue box. It's easy to convince yourself, as an engineer, that a machine is just a machine. But she was so much more than that. She _cared_, and she made us care in return. Goodbye, EDI," she said finally, giving a gentle sigh. "We'll miss you."

Ken placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Aye," he said quietly. "Goodbye, lass."

"It was her voice," said Samantha Traynor, her unease amongst crowds of people evident the moment she opened her mouth. "When I first heard that voice I knew something was amiss. I knew she wasn't simply a VI. Her heart and soul were in that voice, carefully nudging me away from the truth about her nature and towards plausible deniability. But I'm glad I found out. I have met some wonderful people aboard the Normandy but none more so than her. I hope wherever she is now she's at peace. It's the least she deserves."

James Vega, hardly a loquacious man, simply stepped forward, bowed his head and threw a strange, exotic flower from a nearby plant atop her coffin. As he disappeared back into the crowd he was distracted by the distant possibility that the petals housed some foul, flesh-eating insect.

Then there was silence in which they observed a sort of collective anticipation. No one was watching Joker anymore – in fact, they were looking everywhere _but_ at the troubled pilot – though it was nonetheless clear just who they were focusing on. Garrus was once more torn between the desire to hold his tongue and the sense of obligation he felt to Joker, both as his friend and, in the flimsiest sense of the word, his _captain_.

In the end it didn't matter. Joker's gentle footfalls were thunderous, causing everyone in attendance to grow tense. It felt like they spent an age waiting. _Just_ waiting. And then finally Joker emerged through the crowd, with the clouds hung over him, but he had no words and no grand gesture. He touched his hand to the pod and walked away. It was a simple thing, and she was anything but, though with loss came a sort of cold, hard cynicism that latched onto one's heart and formed an almost parasitic bond. Anything he _did_ have to say, it was much too late. Time had passed them by.

They were alone now. Close but still so far away. He lived in the dark heart of the jungle, and she in the belly of the beast.

Joker stood there as they lifted her pod and prepared it for burial – he stood so still that everything around him seemed to be moving in slow motion. It was then he realised that without her, life did not _move_. It merely crawled.

"Stop!"

Joker blinked.

"Just stop."

A sea of heads turned, searching through the crowd for whoever had spoken. Towards the very edge of perimeter, and looking both thoroughly ashamed and uncomfortable, stood Chief Engineer Adams who, while considered to be of normal height for a human, had never seemed so small as he did then.

"EDI… she's–" he began again, his voice every bit as heavy as the burden he bore. "She's not… dead."

The silence endured, destined to it seemed as long as that vague declaration lingered.

"I'm sorry," said Adams, his sombre expression selling the sentiment.

It was Tali who finally broke free from the anesthetised crowd, her tone not reproachful by any means but carrying an undeniable air of distrust.

"What do you mean?" she asked quietly, unwilling to look anywhere but directly at Adams, afraid she might shatter the tenuous hold this moment had on them – equal parts hope and fear, as both the very best and very worst implications loomed over them.

Adams sighed and stayed silent a moment. More than a moment, in fact, and long enough almost to convince the crowd he meant not to speak at all. But finally, after digging sufficiently deep within himself, he found the courage to continue.

"You have to understand," he said, lifting his head, his gaze flickering through the crowd, "I was afraid. I've watched friends die. We all have. Millions of people wiped out by these _machines_ – these Reaper monsters. I've never been a technophobe. I was always more afraid of people than I was of machines. But that was before the Reapers, before this war. Try as I might, I can't unsee the horrors they visited upon us. I mean," and he paused then briefly as he sensed the crowd come to life, realisation slowly dawning on those gathered before him, "who's to say that they weren't once just like EDI?"

It was then that they finally got out of Joker the reaction they were looking for. He turned on his heel, one arm lifting, and pointed an accusatory finger right in Adams' face. He looked like the proverbial whirlwind of emotion, unable to settle on one thing or another and, so, deciding instead to merely follow the deluge and to see where it led him.

"I am!" he cried indignantly. "I'm saying it. I'm saying it right now. You switch her back on... you switch her back on or so help me God I will leave you behind on this planet to be eaten by the bugs."

Joker looked like he was about to snap and lunge at Adams. Of course, as a sufferer of brittle bone disease, the likelihood was that he'd snap before Adams even felt the breeze. Garrus was on edge, rocking onto the tips of his toes – as much as he thought the best course of action was to have a strong word in Adams' ear about the importance of _full disclosure_, he also wanted the man to reap the consequences of his selfish actions. If they could see to that while also keeping all of Joker's bones intact well, it was the little victories they needed to cling to at a time like this.

Adams made to answer but then he hesitated. All eyes were on him, and of this he was acutely aware, but it was the past and not the present that gave him pause.

"That's not all," he said finally, and then he winced suddenly, if only to prepare for the worst – an onslaught, whether verbal or physical, that no matter how well he might be able to justify his actions he nevertheless knew he deserved.

Joker's eyes widened. "There's _more_ to this horror story?"

Adam's swallowed. "I–I couldn't have rebooted her, even if I'd wanted to," he continued, voice quickening. "The ship is barely holding together as it is. If we powered EDI's blue box I'm confident she'd come back online, but…" He sighed. "There's no guarantee that if we did that we'd still be able to make it back to earth."

Joker had not yet let his elation at the news sink in or even really register. His mind was focused instead on blind rage.

"But EDI could help!" he bellowed, hands lifting outwards in disbelief. "She could get us back to Earth in no time."

"We don't have the resources or the power to spare," Adams insisted, his voice lifting. "I promised I could get this ship in the air again but I made that promise based on certain… assumptions. If we bring EDI back now, the variables change. I don't know if anyone understands how a blue box works but it's basically a specialised quantum computer. Suffice to say, there's more to it than an on-off switch."

At this, finally, Joker's blind rage faltered, his arms dropped to his side and he felt merely numb again. Garrus, who was still trying to process the twist in the tale and make tangible sense of it, stepped forward from the crowd, an air of calm about him, and pointed towards the stasis pod.

"Take that back inside," he said, directing his attention towards James Vega. Over the man's shoulder, he could see the setting sun begin to dip below the horizon. He had no desire to be out here after dark – not when he knew what awaited him inside the shadowy jungle. "And everyone else, get back to your stations. This will be dealt with," he said assuredly – so much so, in fact, that the only one who doubted was Garrus himself. "Goodnight."

Garrus placed a gentle hand on Joker's back and ushered the still dumbstruck man back onto the Normandy. There was nothing he could say that would undo Adams' deception and he realised then, or at least appreciated to an unprecedented extent, just how hard it had been for Shepard. A captain was, in many ways, forced to take responsibility for those under his command – their errors performance-wise, of course, but more so their errors in judgement. It was necessary both to stand by them, providing support, as well as to reprimand and remind them why such a thing could never happen again. The two made for strange bedfellows.

On that note, Garrus decided he would sleep on the matter and confront it first thing in the morning. As he retreated to his modest quarters, he left behind a sombre ship. It was like that first night all over again. No one said much, and what was said was uttered in hushed voices.

EDI was alive, or at least not quite dead, but _nobody_ aboard the Normandy that evening was smiling.

Hope lingered, but they _longed_ to a see a return.


	8. VII: Invisible Monsters

"Stop being a pussy, Shepard. _Stand_. _Up_."

His body remembered pain. It remembered the boot overhead, slowing descending upon him, reading to crush all that remained. For a brief moment he was overcome by light-headedness, and it felt as if his entire being were held together by a few stray, lingering wisps of biotic energy. Three hours of _this_, enduring a constant barrage, and through broken bones and torn muscles and bruises inked into his skin, he was supposed to have learned a lesson. He _asked _for help.

"Jack, _please_. I'm exhausted. I _can't_ stand."

The Lion of Elysium they called him, and oh how small he now seemed. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to lift himself onto one knee and there he trembled, every passing second was a nightmare, a living hell which existed only for him to be dragged through by his heels towards the next torturous turn. He made a fist and laid his knuckles on the ground, willing himself to _push_. Not for the first time that afternoon, his prayers went unanswered.

"Stand up or I'll stand you up–" she practically sneered, pointing a finger right into face as she was illuminated, from head to toe, in a brilliant blue aura, "–and crush what's left of your manhood beneath my heel."

His free hand lifted, his bones turned to lead, and with his shaky fingertips he traced the scar on his neck. What once felt like sandpaper was now merely… _different_ – discernible only in so much as side by side with his unmarred skin it seemed slightly _off._ It reminded him of impossible odds. It reminded him of his nine lives, still counting down. What once was a monstrous act was now simply a monstrous memory. Shepard closed his eyes. He felt his teeth dig into the inside of his cheek, drawing blood.

There was a sudden _push_. From where he couldn't say – he couldn't fathom – but even in the darkness in behind his eyes, black spots appeared, framed by white light. To say he was standing was rather charitable – it was more a sort of sad, stumbling stagger. But he was on his feet and he was bearing down on Jack, one impossibly heavy arm raised above his head, wisps of biotic smoke flaring from his fingertips, and he was like the fly to her flyswatter, flicked across the room with barely a twist of her elbow or blink of her eye, his back meeting the unforgiving floor with a dull thud that sounded barely above her approaching footballs but that, nonetheless, seemed to be ringing a high-pitched crescendo in his ears. In all the time that he'd known her, Jack's presence had never been so suffocating.

"Good hustle, soldier," Jack drawled, alternating between staring at his crumpled form on the floor and inspecting her nails. "'Least not bad for a cripple. But we got a _lot_ of work to do."

Shepard remained lying on floor, curled into the foetal position like a cadet after his first day of basic training. It was only minutes later when he felt the toe of Jack's boot gently nudge his bruised ribs that his body jerked upright and he forced himself, with a great deal of effort, to hold this sitting position.

Jack fell to the ground beside him, pressing her back up against the wall.

"I've seen you take bigger licks than that before breakfast and laugh them off," she said, eyeing him with an underlying air of disbelief that so much could become so little.

"Yeah, well this isn't the good ole' days anymore, Jack," he replied, his long arm curling around his ribcage and applying gentle pressure. "Something is wrong with me."

Jack shook her head. "Nothin' we can't fix."

"You mind not beating me half to death next time?" he murmured, rolling his eyes, making light of a situation which still weighed heavy on his bones. "I'd like to actually _finish _the training."

"Oh, what, you want me to hold your hand? Kiss it better?" she asked, turning to him and feigning a pout. "Or should I just leave you here to lick your wounds?"

Shepard clenched his jaw, brow furrowing as the lingering blood from cheek dripped onto his tongue, but he forced himself to stand eventually and hobbled across the room.

"_No_," he replied pointedly, biting back his irritation. "But you should understand that I'm not who I was. Disappointing as that may be, there's nothing I can do about it."

With his body contorted to hide his omni-tool from view, Shepard discreetly checked his messages. A strange, pained smile lifted his lips but by the time Jack was at his side it had faded away.

"You keep tellin' me that," she pointed out, stopping herself in his path, "but I don't buy it."

"Don't buy _what?"_ he asked incredulously. "That I'm as weak as a newborn baby? I'd have thought the evidence would speak for itself."

"That's _bullshit_," she snapped, getting in his face and jabbing a finger against his forehead. "It's all up here. You can do whatever the fuck you want, you've just convinced yourself otherwise."

"_Another_ pep talk, Jack? But my spirit is already at an all-time high."

"Yeah, that's right," she sneered, shaking her head and turning away. "Just hide behind some smart remark. That'll make things better. I don't fucking like helping people, Shepard," she added, whirling around and getting in his face again. "You're the exception. So toughen the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's getting _really_ fucking old."

Jack grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and stormed out of the hospital gym, leaving him standing there and feeling very much like a scolded child. What was worse, he knew she was right. Maybe not _completely_, but the many doctors they had tending to him, and the many alliance specialists sent in to check-up, had all pointed out that his implant was fine, and his readings were above and beyond anything they had seen before out of a human biotic.

Earlier that day, Jack had made some crude joke about performance anxiety. As with most of Jack's jokes, only she laughed. Nevertheless, it stayed with him in a roundabout sort of way. Everything felt fine on the surface, his implant, his training, his experience, but as soon as he reached within himself and tried to pull out a biotic parlour trick, all he could produce was the feeblest of efforts – mere smoke and mirrors, in fact – which only seemed to deepen his paranoia and push him further still from an answer to his troubles.

OOO

As promised in her message, Samara arrived exactly an hour later, standing in his doorway with that strange, reverent silence she seemed to surround her. Her eyes, enormous, cold, and occasionally expressive, always gave him pause.

"Hello, Shepard," she greeted, giving him a once over and immediately noticing his injuries. "Did you get into an altercation?"

"Yeah," he replied, lips twisting into a pained smile. "Something like that."

Samara nodded shortly. "I have the information you requested. I do not like using underhanded methods to acquire sensitive material, but I believe you are the most well equipped to find the killer."

Samara lifted her arm, as did Shepard, and with a few commands punched into her omni-tool the data was transferred into his possession.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Samara."

Again the asari justicar nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "Are your biotics still troubling you?" she asked, her cold tone belying her genuine concern.

Shepard tensed slightly. "I wish they _were_ troubling me. I suppose it's more accurate to say they've abandoned me outright."

She stared at him for a long, lingering moment, eyes never changing, never blinking, just _there_ and so utterly unrelenting. "These are matters of the mind, Shepard – or, rather, mind _over _matter," she said calmly. "Your biotics are fine."

He sighed through his teeth, his jaw clenching. "So I've been told. _Repeatedly_."

"You take this failing personally," she observed, chin lifting.

"How else should I take it?" he said, rather more irritably than he intended.

Samara approached slowly and stood before him, but still her expression, and her eyes, remained unchanged. "I am over six hundred years old, Shepard. In my life I have seen a great many evils unleashed upon this galaxy. Some evil is born out of greed. Some is born out of madness or bloodlust. When you face down these threats you need a grounding influence – something that binds your experiences – past, present and future – together. Mine is fear," she confessed quietly.

Shepard pressed his hip against the bedpost and leaned his weight into it, listening intently. He had always respected the weight of her words and the wisdom therein, though he was struck by the foreboding sense that he nonetheless might not like what she had to say.

"Your experiences, however," she continued, "are bound together not by _your _fear, but by their fear of you."

His eyes narrowed. "You think I'm not afraid?"

She gently shook her head. "I never said that. But you are not a victim. You have never allowed yourself to be. You wield fear as if you seek the galaxy's destruction, but then you turn it back upon the wicked as if it were an old friend."

"What are you saying?" he quietly asked.

"We all have our limits, Shepard – even you. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe it was too much? You pushed yourself so very hard to vanquish the Reaper threat and now – well, now look at you."

His jaw tensed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you achieved something that thousands of civilisations before you have tried and failed to do, and yet still you look to be on edge." She paused and gave him a pointed look. "Still you want to fight. And if no fight presents itself, you wish to find one," she added, her gaze flickering towards the faint glow of his omni-tool. "There is a disconnect within you, Shepard. I do not begrudge you the fight your heart desires, but your soul is weary. Why can you not see this?"

Shepard wrinkled his nose in disapproval. "Says the six hundred year old who forfeited her life and swore herself to the Justicar Code."

"I am guided by duty," she corrected him, a stern look about her. "Whereas you, I fear, are guided by obsession. What will you do when you catch the man or woman responsible for the murder?"

"Arrest them," he said matter-of-factly.

Samara left a deliberate silence. "And then what?"

Shepard bit the inside of his cheek. "Arrest the next one," he said shortly.

She sighed and took a small step towards him. "There are not enough evildoers in this galaxy to satisfy your obsession. This is not about the murder. This is about guilt. And how you of all people can feel so very guilty is beyond my understanding. The disappearance of the Normandy is not your fault."

"That's still my ship," he said pointedly, making a conscious effort to quash his temper.

"And they're still your crew. That does not mean you are responsible for what happened. If you say the word I will find this killer and bring them to justice."

Shepard looked down at the ground. "I need to do this," he conceded, and to even acknowledge as much felt like a betrayal.

"Then it is as I feared."

His eyes remained fixed on the floor, trailing the many little patterns wore into its surface. Her presence there, scarcely a metre in front of him, was stifling. It was as if he _could_ hear the beating of her heart, every individual breath drawn from her lungs – even the blinking of those enormous, piercing eyes.

He grabbed his jacket off the bed and scarcely looked at her as he made for the door. It was not his proudest moment – in fact, he felt the full burden of his cowardice – but necessity dictated that he escape and clear his head before she could invade it further.

"Thanks, Samara," he said in parting, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. "I'll see you around."

OOO

His name was Vincent McGrath. He played the piano. He liked to read non-fiction. He owned a fish. There was only one photograph anywhere within – of his parents on their 40th wedding anniversary. He was single, and as such lived a single serve lifestyle. The apartment reeked of loneliness.

Not counting the bloodstain in the alley, this was all that was left of him.

For a long time – time spent wandering around, poking and prodding, retracting his steps and inspecting every corner of the dead man's apartment – Shepard felt merely morbid. As if faced with the very real and very _clear_ realisation that there was no clue to be found and yet choosing to endure because of a combination of stubbornness and just enough self-delusion to push past the embarrassment of it all.

There was nothing here that he could reconcile with that scene in the alley. Vincent's death may have been a vulgar cry for attention dreamed up by a sick individual, but his _life_ was a quiet and humble affair.

His mind began to process the possibilities, always coming back to the most obvious explanation – wrong place, wrong time. A crime of passion seemed unlikely for a man's who life lacked any. Likewise, his modest furniture and decoration appeared to belie the prospect of serious money troubles, or of getting in with the wrong crowd. Humanity had evolved, they had reached up and touched the stars, and yet matters of life and death still came down to mere _chance_, or better yet the whim of a psychotic, bloodthirsty killer.

It was as the real wars were fought that the invisible monsters not only _fed_ but thrived.

OOO

The alley was freshly cleaned. The mop up crew had been there that very morning, he suspected. And yet despite that, he found the still lingering stench of death to be nauseating.

A vivid picture remained in his head. The body hung like an effigy, dripping blood from every available orifice, and while it undoubtedly sent a very loud message, the exact meaning was still up for debate. The idea that the killer was saying, 'look at me, look at me,' seemed entirely plausible, but the possibility that it was instead a _ruse_ and meant to hide something or someone much more significant continued to niggle at him.

Because it was all too much. Shepard had lived his life surrounded by the mentally unstable, some he called friend and others foe, but the fact it was vert so desperate, and that the killer needed to be seen, begged a disturbing question – how far had this individual fallen? How low had they needed to sink before this brutal act was the sole means by which they calmed their madness?

Suddenly Shepard felt uneasy at having returned to the scene of the crime, and though he peered about every inch of alleyway, searched it as thoroughly as he had Mr McGrath's apartment, he was left clinging to a troubling thought. If indeed he was right and the killer desperately craved attention then was it entirely possible – or, in fact, probable – that he was being watched. If not directly, for fear of this sick game coming to an abrupt end, then perhaps the killer would simply return to the scene of the crime later that day and breathe in the scent of a sick and satisfied indulgence.

Once more the nausea came on thick and fast.

OOO

When Shepard returned to the hospital and found his room, he threw his jacket onto the bed with a petulance unbecoming of a man his age. Truth be told, he was no detective. His military career wasn't so much 'shoot first, ask questions later', as it was simply _shoot_ and damn the questions.

It dawned on him that he was acting carelessly, and that if indeed his suspicions about the killer were correct then it was utterly foolish to investigate alone and unarmed. With his biotics misfiring, some sort of weapon seemed in order, but simply dialling alliance HQ and asking for a hand cannon to rub together with his itchy trigger finger was unlikely to be well received. They had returned the artefacts of his recovered from the field of battle, but these consisted of his dog tags, a burnt out shell of armour and, best of all, an eight-inch long shard of shrapnel that some overzealous field medic had removed from his torso. These keepsakes were underwhelming, to say the least.

While his career _was_ defined by a distinct lack of questions, his mind was still a restless thing. Perhaps it was foolish to be so absorbed by matters that warranted consideration much, much earlier, but nonetheless he found it distracting, consuming, the very walls turning into canvases on which he mapped out his next move. And _that_ was not so much distracting as it was dangerous – and flirting with danger was yet another hallmark of his _illustrious_ career.

The matter of his obsession was not ignored, either. It played a large part in the absorption. It occurred to Shepard, however, that just because Samara was right, that didn't mean to say he was necessarily wrong. Without his intervention, Vincent McGrath's death warranted about as much concern in a post-war environment as he did in his depressingly humdrum pre-war existence. Duty and honour were all well and good – old friends of his, in fact – but living too long on too little, and relying solely on good intentions, was a recipe for burnout. Shepard was not ready to retire, or to be paraded around the streets of London in an open air car, waving like royalty and watching his own slow descent into this frightful caricature.

Witnessing firsthand the misery of the world, the depths people would sink to in search of profit or reprisal, the filth of the gutter reflected in the streets – this was what inspired him to rise up above his lowly station (as well as his own wicked deeds) and become not necessarily a force for good, because none of them could claim a pure heart, but in the very least a hindrance; someone brave enough to stand in the way and simply say _no_. Bravery was not heroism, however. Bravery was much simpler – perhaps a moment of what seemed like stupidity but that, nonetheless, was looked back upon favourably. Bravery was a single moment, whereas heroism was a lifelong ideal. There were none left that lived up to that mantle, as far as he could tell. In fact, perhaps heroism was a lofty ideal with such prohibitively demanding prerequisites that there were none to begin with but for those invented by revisionist history.

OOO

By the time Jack arrived the following day, Shepard was already packing his things. The hospital had finally decided he could be discharged, so long as he agreed to report regularly and attend rehab twice a week. The alliance, for their part, had somehow managed to find him an apartment – only the most modest of living areas but an impressive feat nevertheless considering the state of London. He felt guilty that as an able-bodied individual he was occupying an apartment that might have been utilised by any number of desperate, struggling people. It was only the knowledge that he would not stay long that helped alleviate this guilt.

Jack had taken the news with a sort of numb acceptance he was not used to seeing out of her.

"You want to say something, Jack?" he asked hesitantly.

"I didn't expect this," she replied, nodding towards the suitcase.

"Neither did I," he said, one shoulder lifting into a shrug. Jack had made her way over to the window, looking out onto London with that numb stare, and when he joined her he tentatively wrapped his arm around her shoulder, feeling her grow tense for all of a moment before relaxing into the embrace. "Didn't expect it; didn't want it. I don't belong here," he added, turning to give her a sidelong glance. "And nor do you."

Jack stared down at her feet. "But we're standing so very still."

His arm tightened just slightly around her shoulder. "I'd make a lousy pirate."

"Yeah," she replied, a quiet amusement about her expression. "And what would the boy scouts do without you?"

He smiled softly. "Fall to pieces, I'd imagine."

He turned from the window, letting his arm fall away, and continued filling his suitcase with the few personal possessions he had left. After a minute or two, Jack joined him, sitting on his bed and slipping her hands into her jacket pockets.

"I came by for a reason, you know," she pointed out, though more as a reminder to herself than anything else.

He flashed a wry smile. "Come to finish me off?"

"No," she said, quickly shaking her head. "I'm serious." Then she hesitated, her hands fidgeting in her pockets as she turned towards him, brow furrowed. "I'm no good at this apologising shit. And you asked me to help you, condition you – it was your fucking choice. You should have known you weren't getting Little Miss Muffet. Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?" she asked, suddenly exasperated. "You're such a dumbass sometimes."

Shepard simply stared back at her, his eyes unblinking. "Wow. That was, hands down, the worst apology in the history of god-awful apologies." He shook his head, lips curling in amusement. "Well done."

"Fuck it," she said, shrugging and pulling something out of her jacket pocket. "I knew it'd be terrible. That's why I got you this."

Jack tossed the envelope over to him and Shepard proved that despite his earlier struggles, he maintained his sharp reflexes, catching it just before it struck him in the face.

He eyed the envelope warily, feeling a solid object inside. Jack, for her part, didn't care enough even to look at him or was, perhaps, otherwise guarding herself from his reaction. He tore the paper open and let the object fall into his hand. It was a biotic amp not unlike the ones she wore, painted gold, shaped to fit a human ear and cold to the touch.

Jack was a volatile creature with a certain knack for catching people off-guard, but this gesture above all others truly shocked him.

"They helped me when I was having trouble keeping my shit together," she said, shrugging perhaps more aggressively than was necessary. "Figured they might do the same for you."

Shepard decided not to make any sudden movements. "Jack, tha–"

"I told you, Shepard," she cut in, a harsh edge to her voice that she couldn't help. "I'm not good with this sentimental shit. I said sorry, you said thanks – why don't we just pretend it happened exactly like that, 'kay?"

He nodded and forced a smile. "Of course."

Shepard began to fiddle with the device, a somewhat distrusting look crossing his sharp features when something he inadvertently did caused a number of lights to flash. He looked to her, helplessly.

Jack rolled her eyes. "They call you the Reaper-slayer and you can't even work a bio amp. Pathetic much?"

His brow furrowed, feigning offence. "They don't _really_ call me the Reaper-slayer, do they?"

"Give it here," she said, snatching the device out of his hands and into her admittedly more experienced grasp. A few seconds later the device lit up completely and made a low humming sound. Jack lifted herself onto the tips of her toes, pushed his hair aside and connected the device to his ear.

He cried out suddenly in immense pain as a number of small but unbelievably sharp metal prongs pieced the space in behind his ear.

"Oh yeah," she drawled, clearly amused. "I forgot to say – this is the part that hurts."

"_Thanks_, Jack," he said with mock-sweetness, still wincing from the unexpected intrusion.

"Don't worry, you big baby," she said dismissively as she landed flat on her feet once more. "It's over now. You wanna' lollipop?"

Shepard ignored the lightheaded barb, his hand reaching for the back of his neck as a very potent stinging sensation ran the length of his spine before spreading out towards each of his limbs.

"That'll pass," she added, flashing a sheepish grin. "Trust me."

Strangely enough, and despite his better judgement, he _did_ trust her; more so than anyone on earth, and more so than anyone in the galaxy, with a few exceptions. Her soul was battered, damaged beyond any recognition and impossible to reconcile with what might have been, but it was _honest_ – a rare and admirable trait, the virtue of which most overlooked where Jack was concerned. There was a time when she thought his friendship was simply a good deed, that he was the bo

y scout and she the charity case, but over time he had proved himself above such empty gestures.

"Jack, there's something I want to tell you," he said, hesitating slightly.

"Then tell me," she stated plainly, looking him in the eye and paying little mind to his hesitancy. "What's the big deal?"

He laughed quietly, but his expression quickly sobered. "The other night, after we left that bar – I stumbled upon something that–" And he paused, unsure of how to go on, thinking that trust was very different in theory to how it was in practice. Even the psychotic biotic might laugh him out of the room.

"Spit it out, Shepard."

He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. "It's not that simple. I've been thinking. Look – someone was killed out there. Just some back alley butcher job on the surface of it, but I have this niggling feeling like–"

"Paranoia?" she asked, raising her brow.

"No," he said dismissively. "Well, maybe. But the point is, I can't let it slide. I can't stop thinking about it. Everyone think it's an open and shut case. They're saying these things are to be expected. That half the people on earth are suffering through post-traumatic stress disorder. But today," he stopped long enough to sigh. "I broke into this apartment."

"_Nice_," she said in jest.

Shepard ignored the remark. "The victim's apartment," he clarified, hand moving to his head, his fingertips rubbing at his temple. "And I couldn't stop thinking that it was the punch line to a very cruel joke. Like, here's a man who no one could wish to kill. No one could even care enough to muster the energy. And yet I saw him, I watched what was left of him bleed onto that alley floor, and every time I ask myself _why_–" He shook his head. "I get the same answer. This isn't the first sick game I've played. And this isn't the first time I've feared that my opponent is far smarter than I am."

Jack was listening intently but clearly struggling to make sense of it all.

"Maybe I can blame paranoia for that feeling of being watched," he continued. "_Maybe_. But as I moved forward of my own accord I had this feeling like–" His shoulders lifted into a shrug and his outstretched hands followed. "It's all part of a plan. As if he was merely cunning enough to present me with the illusion of choice and, what's more, enough rope to hang myself." His hands balled into fists and he closed his eyes. "I feel like I'm going mad here, Jack."

"Jesus," she replied breathlessly. "Can't you ever… shut it off? Just for two seconds?"

His eyes opened and he looked right at her. "_No_."

Jack began to worry the inside of her lip, anxiously considering his words. "You make my head hurt with this shit, Shepard. Seriously, most people just pay through the nose for therapy or start fights with strangers. Why is _this_ how you fix yourself? Why does this random murder matter so much?"

"But that's what I'm saying," he said urgently, taking a step forward. "I don't think it was random. But how do you know the difference?" he asked, pushing his hands through his hair. "How do you separate reality from paranoia when you've been paranoid for as long as you can remember?" He approached her then, stopping just short of completely invading her personal space. "You _know_ what that feels like, Jack."

Something flashed in her gaze and she fixed him with a reproachful stare. "So you're going to make me dredge up all that bullshit in my past just to help you out?"

His eyes turned quite cold and there was a quiet, savage quality to his voice. "Don't even _try _that. You've buried nothing. We don't discard our old lives, we merely adapt."

"_Fine,"_ she snapped, making every effort to mirror his tone. "We'll do it your way. And I'll help you." She suddenly pointed a finger in his face. "But when we go off the deep end and suddenly everyone is trying to kill us, I want you to remember whose idea this was. And don't you dare come back with a smart remark–" She looked him right in the eye. "That's how it happens. That's how it _always_ happens."

Shepard held up his hands and said nothing, instead returning to his suitcase and cramming a few final items inside. The fact that his life had been saved, or at the very least preserved, in this room did not mean he had grown to like it. In fact, he was desperate to say his goodbyes.

"There's one more thing," he ventured, waiting in the doorway for her to join him.

"Oh?" she asked, head turning, brow lifting.

"I'm going to need a gun."


	9. VIII: Sail Away

Garrus swept through the Normandy's CIC with a confidence befitting a commanding officer. His position had grown on him, a matter of time, a matter of patience, neither thing in short supply during the months spent marooned on Calypso. Any leadership aspirations buried in the shadow of William Shepard quickly sprouted from the earth and took on a life of their own.

"At ease, soldier," he murmured smoothly to a passing cadet.

But it all felt new, and not merely new but strange and _raw_. The saluting soldiers were a constant reminder of two vitally important things. Firstly: that while this was not his first leadership position, it _was_ unlike any other; that was to say that the bands of misfits and miscreants that had come before could not compare to the team Shepard had assembled. Not only could they count amongst their company the finest the Alliance had to offer, but the Normandy also boasted a Quarian admiral, the infamous Shadow Broker, and a blue box housing an unshackled AI. Omega suddenly seemed so very small.

The second thing, and something not so easily defined, was just what kind of a leader Garrus Vakarian was. The soldiers did not salute Shepard. Not because he was yet to earn their respect, or because he didn't demand it with every footfall, but because he was a known quantity and, what's more, he was beloved. Saluting Shepard was like going up to the most beautiful female in the room and telling her exactly that. Flattering, of course, but ultimately pointless.

This made Shepard all the more remarkable. That he was able to balance a position of power with the many friendships he had aboard the Normandy only really struck Garrus now that he was similarly and precariously poised.

"Engine check," he said softly, placing a taloned hand gently on the back of the pilot's chair.

"Same as it was twenty minutes ago, Vakarian," Joker replied, his amusement masking his genuine irritation. "And for the past week. Unless you want me to go outside and check the nuts and bolts, I'd say the Normandy is as flightworthy as it'll be."

"Weapons check, then," the turian said shortly.

Joker's head slowly turned, revealing an incredulous look. "You expecting to run into much trouble between the land and the sky?"

"More trouble than a smart-mouthed, brittle-boned pilot? Probably not," he replied, returning the gaze. "But why don't you humour me anyway."

"Touché, captain."

Joker punched in a series of commands with practiced ease and then sat back in his seat and wallowed in self-satisfaction.

"EDI herself couldn't have done it better," said Joker as he threaded his fingers behind his head. "And I'll be sure to tell her that as soon as we get back to Earth."

"You really think it'll be that easy?" asked Garrus.

"What do you mean?" Joker shot back quickly, brow furrowed in confusion.

"We don't know what we're going back to," he replied, his voice level. "Earth could be in ruins. The Alliance could be one bullet short of mutiny. Humanity could have devolved back to a prehistoric state."

While it sounded like a joke, not dissimilar from previous verbal jousts between the two, Garrus' tone left little room for doubt that he was, on some level at least, and one that warranted attention, being entirely serious.

"And I don't like to be the one to say it," he continued, allowing a thought to surface that had been niggling away at him for weeks. "But ever since the incident with EDI I've been asking myself, what makes Shepard so different? Why were we so sure that EDI was dead? And why we are so sure that Shepard isn't?"

"Because–" Joker replied, but then he paused suddenly and attempted to gather together the rest of that sentence. "I mean–"

"Because Tali refused to put his name on the wall?" Garrus suggested.

"No," Joker insisted. "No. Definitely not. I mean," he added desperately, lips pursing, brow furrowed. "It's more like. It's–" He puffed out his cheeks despairingly and then gave a sigh. "Okay. Maybe it is that. Well, more than likely. But it's not like we saw him die. And the last time I _did_ see him die he was back two years later and he was all, _'hey, what's up, Joker, we're with Cerberus now – wanna' go for a beer?'_"

"You have a real gift, Moreau."

Joker wiggled his eyebrows. "You mean for romancing AIs with smokin' hot robot bodies? Or that whole astro-navigation thing?"

"I was thinking more of your ability to talk utter nonsense."

Joker laughed. "_Ah_, that. Hey, it's all good. I'm a man of many talents."

"Let the crew know," said Garrus, turning serious once more, "take-off procedures begin tomorrow morning at 0800 hours. We're finally getting off this rock."

"_Yes, sir_," Joker practically shouted, offering the retreating turian a lazy salute.

OOO

While James Vega could hardly be called a subtle creature, the memorial wall on the crew deck had always struck him as particularly jarring. And perhaps that was the point, as war was a time in which every sacrifice, great and small, needed to be remembered. But he couldn't help the way his footsteps sped up just a little, or how quickly he managed to avert his eyes in passing.

Dinner was being served in the mess hall; apparently something that smelled processed and looked like it had been squeezed fresh out of a tube. The Normandy's impending departure meant rations were no longer much of a concern but he had long since added a home cooked meal to the list of things he wished to be reacquainted with; a list that also included a cold beer, a warm bed and a hot shower. A member of the fairer sex wouldn't go amiss, either. Or two.

The closest there was to a natural order on the Normandy was on display come dinnertime. It wasn't a case of segregation, simply habits and tendencies shared amongst the crew. The cadets sat on one table, the engineers on another and then, finally, a group to which he belonged, a group without a name and without any real common ground beyond their relationship with the erstwhile Commander. And since they were sans Shepard, he found it both amusing and remarkable that the congregation held their ground.

"Sparks, Scars," he said, taking a seat and addressing Tali and Garrus, "another appetising dextro delicacy, I take it?" He eyed their food, Garrus' in a small bowl and Tali's in a clear tube. "Bon appétit."

Tali, who would never feel entirely comfortable eating in front of others, but who made the concession at Shepard's insistence, laughed shortly at the cocky marine. "So the cadets wouldn't give you their lunch money and now you've come to pick on us dextros. Tsk. Shame on you, Mr. Vega."

"Hey," Vega replied, holding his hands up defensively, "I like purple coloured goo as much as the next guy, Sparks. Go easy."

"You're lucky I like you," Tali said dismissively, bowing her head as she lifted the tube to her mouthpiece. "_Bosh'tet_."

Vega grinned his goofy grin, flashing a suggestive look at first Ashley Williams and then Liara T'Soni, both of whom seemed merely amused by his antics. He continued on, undeterred by the tough crowd. "Hard to imagine, isn't it? This time next week we'll be back on Earth. We should do something. Something crazy. You know, to mark the occasion."

"If you want to run naked around the ship, Vega," Garrus practically drawled, "then be my guest."

"Oh, what's the matter, Vakarian?" Vega quickly retorted. "You're missing Shepard and so you're coming to Jimmy Vega for your booty call?"

While Tali'Zorah was reduced to a face palm, Ashley Williams wasn't so prepared for a silent protest. "That's a visual that will _never_ stop haunting me. Ugh," she added, shivering for effect.

"What's a booty call?" asked Liara suddenly, her expression a sort of blank innocence that only grew more compelling the longer it lingered.

Everyone at the table turned to her, in unison, and simply stared. She blinked. Slowly.

"_Oh_."

"_Aaanyway…_" Vega continued after a moment, an uneasy, lopsided smile twisting his lips. "I'm going to be at the bar in about fifteen minutes to raise a toast to this rock. And you'll be there," he went on, pointing at Garrus and then going around the table, "and you, and you, and you."

With that said, Vega sauntered off to collect his meal, leaving the group smiling despite themselves and sharing in their bemusement. Jimmy Vega was a difficult man to say no to.

OOO

There in the centre of the bar, a bar surrounded by Shepard's closest friends, sat a bottle of Sea Wynde Rum. It was his favourite. It was untouched. More so, it was a symbol of a celebration that was a long time coming. Much as they all wanted to raise a glass and toast the demise of the Reapers, it felt utterly wrong to do so without Shepard. And so it was a quiet affair, the small group joined only by Joker and Samantha Traynor.

"You know, in my head this was a little less awkward," Vega ventured, flashing an apologetic smile.

"I daresay everything you do is a little less awkward in your head, Vega," Garrus replied coolly, always jumping at the chance to rib a fellow crewmember.

Traynor lifted her chin, a small smile fading from her lips, and asked, "Do you think we'll ever go back? Do you think we'll ever live normal lives?"

Garrus chuckled. "Who are you asking? The shadow broker? The quarian admiral? The ex-vigilante?"

Traynor blinked her eyes shut. "You're right," she said softly, mildly embarrassed. "Stupid question."

"A better question," Tali ventured, smiling beneath her mask at Traynor, "might be: would you take that life if it was offered to you?"

"Well I just signed myself away to the N7s," Vega replied amusedly, "so I guess that's a no from me."

"And I'm a Spectre, so…" Ash interjected, trailing off. "Normal for me would be staring down the barrel of a gun. Again. And I think if you try to quit, they blacklist you, and you spend the rest of your days working security detail outside an asari whorehouse. No offence, Liara," she added, taking a sip of her drink and watching the asari over the rim of her glass.

"None taken."

"I couldn't do it," said Garrus, eyes narrowing as he thought it over. "Normal it just… it's not us. I mean, I could go home to Palaven. Find a wife. Have some kids. Really settle down. I won't pretend I haven't thought about it. But each time I heard my omni-tool chime I'd be waiting, expecting… _hoping_ that Shepard was on the other end of the line, telling me that for the thousandth time he wants to run off and risk his life for some insane cause, and that he needs me by his side. I couldn't say no. And whatever happiness normality would bring me… it wouldn't feel right. Not when I'm just waiting for something better to come along."

"And the galaxy needs a shadow broker," Liara chimed in between sips of her drink, "it may not want one, but there's a lot of rebuilding to be done. I can do a lot more from the shadows than I can as Liara T'Soni."

"Flying this ship is the only thing I've ever been good at," said Joker. "And I don't want to lose that. The many life threatening situations aside, these have been the best days of my life. If Shepard will have me, then I'll stay by his side until the end. If not, I'll just get a job on the second best ship in the galaxy. I'm sure I could live with that."

Traynor had been listening intently. As a relatively new addition to the Normandy crew, she was easily awed. Her crewmates, whether infamous or previously unknown to her, were utterly fascinating. When she realised it was her turn, and that she had a tough act to follow, she gave a nervous little laugh and took a large gulp of wine.

"As nice as that sounds… you know, a normal life – I think we're all forgetting something."

"And what's that?" asked Liara, tilting her head.

"Shepard wouldn't last five minutes without us."

The group broke into fits of laughter – reserved laughter, certainly, but the moment meant all the more because of it.

There was a pause and everyone who was _not _looking at Tali, awaiting her contribution, was doing so in such an obvious way that they might as well have had their faces pressed against her visor.

Beneath her mask, she gave a sad little smile. "I don't know," she said in earnest. "I really just… don't know."

Another paused followed, this one decidedly awkward. So much so that everyone there _not_ thinking about lost loves was half-expecting Vega to strip down to his birthday suit and go off running towards the surface of Calypso. Mercifully, that did not come to pass and instead Tali got up out of her seat, grabbed the bottle of Sea Wynde Rum and popped the cork, much to the surprise of her companions.

"I thought…" Liara began, treading carefully.

"That I was waiting for Shepard?" Tali asked, filling six glasses with the amber liquid. Though she and Garrus could not partake, it was the gesture itself that mattered. "I know. And I am. But he is not the sentimental type. He would want you, his friends, to enjoy this night. You've earned it."

Everyone took their glasses and lifted them into the air. Ashley and Vega were practically salivating, while Garrus sniffed at the drink, in lieu of taking a sip, and cringed almost immediately. Nevertheless, he went around the circle, gently clinking glass against glass and leading the toast.

"To our friend," he said smoothly, "to our captain… and to the many suicide missions that lie ahead under his command. We wouldn't have it any other way."

His friends answered the rallying cry and cheered in unison, "To Shepard."


	10. IX: No One's Home

Jack hated Shepard's apartment. Hated it with a passion.

She hated how sterile it all felt. How deceptively clean it was. In the two weeks he'd lived there, it hadn't changed a bit. The automated sanitation units worked silently through the night, pointlessly sweeping over flooring that never stained and walls that never marked.

Shepard had watched, smiling, as she poured a glass of wine onto the eggshell white carpeting. It soaked in. It bled. And ten seconds later it was gone. Her time in space – a lifetime, in fact – left her ill prepared to enjoy the comforts of terra firma.

Truth be told, this apartment, and indeed this planet, had one thing going for it. And that _thing_ wasn't there, an absence that had become commonplace of late. Shepard left a note, fully aware that she had lifted his spare key. His sense of humour was lost on her increasingly short temper.

_Out of milk. Cereal tasted dry. Don't open the toy._

That was not the worst of it. Jack realised something. It wasn't that it was so hard for her, or for Shepard, to leave their mark. Rather, the empty space enclosed within those four walls reminded her that they had no mark to leave. A captain without a ship was a pathetic thing indeed. Every bit as pathetic, she imagined, as a criminal and a pirate with an Alliance funded bank account and a cushy teaching job waiting for her just as soon as the smoke cleared.

However, the smoke was still rising. Every day. Higher and higher, suffocating the skies and poisoning the atmosphere. Before the war, Earth's industry had been driven by technological advancement and cutting edge scientific research. The crushing blow struck by the Reapers had meant the rapid construction of factories and warehouses all over London, as well as in countless other major cities, was suddenly necessary. Mostly to help in ship manufacture and repair although, from what little Jack heard when she pressed her ear to the ground, the Alliance was also unearthing age-old deposits of low grade fuel to replenish their fast diminishing reserves.

So, in a word, Earth was fucked. And it's saviour, past, present and future, humanity's finest son, was out buying milk for his breakfast cereal, the box of which featured a holographic cartoon goat who was winking at her from across the room.

Jack hated the feeling of helplessness that he seemed eager to thrust upon her lately and so began snooping around. Despite the locked doors, it didn't take her long to find something – in fact, it was flashing before her eyes on his answer machine. One missed call. One message.

"_Hey, Shepard, it's Hackett. How you doing?_"

Jack rolled her eyes and waited for the awkward silence to abate.

"_Look, I understand why you haven't been picking up my calls. The stuff you've been through, I'd be more surprised if your head was in the right place. But I want you to know… no one has forgotten how much you've sacrificed. Or how important you are. This thing with the parade? You don't have to be there. I told them it was a bad idea. Too soon after the fact. Just… let me know you're alright. When you can. I'm worried about you. Hackett out."_

Jack felt strange. Uneasy, almost. Not because she had pried and found amongst her loot her erstwhile and guilty conscience. No, this was something much more ridiculous. She had pried and found not something embarrassing, or revealing, but simply heartfelt and, ultimately, importantly, that she knew would fall on deaf ears. Shepard was not listening. Shepard was not home.

OOO

"Hey, turian," Jack barked at the alien, her heavy footfalls filling the alley with a foreboding echo. "Hey, I'm talking to you, bird-brain."

The turian _merchant_ visibly tensed at the familiar sight of the tattooed human biotic. This, along with the battered suit of armour he wore, meant it was difficult for him to appear as anything more than a rat trapped by a much larger and more dangerous creature. Jack barely made eye contact and allowed her tone to speak for itself.

"It's been a week…" she said through her teeth.

"Six days by my count," he replied in a feeble attempt at nonchalance.

Jack raised a fist that was instantly surrounded in a brilliant blue aura.

"But then, what do I know?" he added quickly. "I'm just a tourist. Can hardly keep up with Earth's crazy day-night cycles."

"Don't get cute with me, Scrooge McDuck. I gave you two hundred credits _seven_ days ago." She shook her head. "Was I not clear when I said either you get me a gun or I teach you to fly?"

"N-no," he replied apologetically, "you were clear. Perfectly clear. And, I mean, I'm a man of my word. When Corvus Minn promises something…"

"Get on with it," Jack demanded, interrupting him, the muscles in her jaw tensing as her fisted hand opened and laid flat before the turian's beady little eyes. "You already ripped me off. Don't waste your breath with the sales spiel."

"Well, you see… well." Minn's hand moved to the back of his neck, worrying the rough, leathery skin as he averted his gaze. "There was a _slight_ problem with acquiring the item. So slight you might not even notice a difference."

Jack merely raised a brow.

"Just let me say that what you're getting here is a fine piece of craftsmanship. I mean, the _very_ best," he added, trying in vain to hide behind a small sprinkle of showmanship. "This is a state of the art killing machine. Fires bullets faster than a speeding locomotive, reload time is… well… it possesses an efficient reload mechanism. You won't – what is it you humans say?" he asked, pausing briefly, his eyes searching the heavens for an answer. "You won't get caught with your pants down? Is that right?"

"Life, Corvus," asked Jack. "D'you like it?"

"Uh, well, yeah. I do."

"Then shut up."

Minn swallowed hard. "Point taken."

OOO

There was something they could not see – something of enormity, something garish and depraved. A red river ran through the heart of London, intersecting through the slums, through the financial district, through the alien shelters and the shipping yards. No stone was left unturned and no skull left uncracked.

There was a quarian in Chelsea, her visor shattered to pieces, her legs and arms broken, her mouth gagged. She was left there to die slowly, painfully, as the onslaught of infection overwhelmed her system.

There was a krogan in Battersea, his skull plate torn right off, exposing him to a fatal blow atop his head. The walls were painted with krogan blood and brain matter. Judging by signs of struggle and collateral damage, the krogan had lived through the ordeal – at least long enough to suffer mightily.

There was an asari in Westminster, whose mutilation was not incidental to her death but, rather, the other way around. Her tentacles had been… shaved. Shawn. There really was no word that did the act justice. Her cold, dead eyes gave Shepard hope that the damage done to the rest of her body had been done so post-mortem. It was only a fool's hope.

There was a turian in Greenwich, a solider stripped of his armour, stuck with a blade and left to hang by its neck from the rafters. It died with the same cold, impassive expression with which it lived but Shepard knew pain, he knew the kind of suffering that dare not make a sound, and this creature had begged to its gods by the end for that suffering to cease. Like all prayers, it no doubt went unanswered.

This mutilation was unique but the murders were not. Humans were being killed at a much faster rate but in a decidedly tamer manner. So distinct were the two styles that if one squinted, or ignored their better judgement, they could be seen as separate matters entirely. However, there was always an ego involved, the same ego, and a hunger to be satisfied – a calling card, as it were.

It was subtle, almost. Or as subtle as death could be. Each body was propped up, whether hanging or lying, into an upright position. The arms were then extended outwards and the head bowed, eyes facing the ground.

It was the sign of the martyr, that much he knew – a close approximation of figures from various religions and mythologies across the galaxy. They were paying for the sins of others, humans and aliens alike, but no matter how deep he dug, no matter how much he let obsession take hold, he could not find the _why_ in all of this. Not even close. He saw only madness, and this was too clever, too precise, and too persistent to be driven by madness alone.

Someone out there was moving their pieces into place on the board across from, a cold, clinical detachment to this game. And yet Shepard was blinded by rage and disgust and paranoia. He did not wear them well. His pieces were lost to him and he feared, and rightfully so, the grave consequences of losing this sick, twisted game.

A future he did not want replaced by one he could not imagine.

Shepard was lost in thought and stirred only at the sound of the front door opening. This was followed by booted footfalls and then, eventually, the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging through his refrigerator. He shook his head and left the room, locking the door on his way out, then greeted the intruder in the kitchen, his shoulder leaning against the wall.

"Where's the milk?" asked Jack, her head buried in the fridge, her body bent at the waist.

"Must have slipped my mind," he replied mildly.

After a few seconds, Jack's emerged, apple in hand, energy drink in the other. She was smiling – it always worried him when Jack was smiling.

"How'd you get apples?" she asked through a mouthful of the fruit. "You lift it? The Alliance send you a nice fruit basket as housewarming? With the war and all I thought these things were worth their weight in gold."

"You didn't come here to talk about fruit did you, Jack?" he asked, watching her with a suspicious eye.

"Whatever," she replied, shrugging as she dropped onto his couch and kicked her feet up onto his coffee table, her heavy boots coming crashing down on its impeccable wooden surface and not leaving a mark. "Sleight of hand, right? I say fruit when I really mean something else. You say milk. No biggie."

Shepard turned to face her but otherwise remained rooted to the spot. "And what _do_ you really mean?"

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head, "I'm not playing this game. I never win. See, when I say fruit I do mean something else. And I always do. But that something else isn't like your something else. That something else isn't a dead body on every street corner, and your big nose never far behind. My something else is nothing compared to that."

"Really?" Shepard's eyebrows lifted. "You think I have a big nose?"

Jack snorted. "Yeah. Huge. But you're lucky. It suits you. Makes you look distinguished. The kinda' nose you can stare down and scare the shit out of Reapers. But it's not your nose I'm interested in."

"So you like my eyes, then?" Shepard replied facetiously.

"No."

He tilted his head and smiled a lazy smile. "One extranet report described them as two dreamy pools of emerald ambrosia."

"I don't get you, Shepard. I never have. And honestly, it never used to bug me as much as it does right now." Jack whirled around in her seat, her frustration evident as she pointed a finger in his face as if it were the barrel of a gun. "But you asked me to help you. Point blank – Jack, will you help me. I wanted to say no. And you know why? Because you're a living, breathing shit-storm." She shook her head anxiously. "But, like an idiot, I said yes. And then, what? I hardly hear from you in two weeks. You're not my boss. And we ain't bangin'. So quit fucking playing games, will ya'? I'm so sick of this shit."

"I won't lie," he began quietly after a long and painful pause, "I have been… distracted."

"No shit."

"But I don't know why you're taking it personally."

Jack huffed suddenly and kicked the table. "Are you fucking kiddin' me? 'Course I take it personally. Are you gonna' stand there and pretend that if you had the A team here you'd be sneakin' out in the dead of night, on your own, to investigate every pinprick in London?"

"The A team?" he replied incredulously, although he had the good sense not to laugh.

"Yeah, you know. T'Soni, Varkarian, and your little bucket-headed princess."

Shepard sighed. "Why do you do that? You like Tali. Other than me, she's about the only person you used to talk to on the Normandy. You don't have to pretend like you hate everyone."

"Don't fucking change the subject."

"How is this fair?" Shepard snapped, lifting himself into a upright position. "Or don't you remember? Grissom Academy. We'd just pulled your ass out of the fire. You and your students."

Jack huffed. "Yeah. I remember. You helped. A little."

"And I asked you to come with me. I told you there would always be a spot on the Normandy for you. You shot me down. _Point blank_," he added, echoing her statement. "And now you're going to pretend like I don't trust you? Like I don't want you around? _Hey_," he said, coming up behind her, his knee gently tapping the back of the couch. "If there _is_ an A team, you're on it, okay?" He gave her a lingering look and eventually began to smile. He couldn't resist. "So save your paranoid ranting for your biotics-anonymous meetings."

Jack picked up a nearby pillow and wacked him with it. "Fuck you. It was _one_ meeting. And I only went because Kahlee Sanders practically begged me."

"Make any friends?" Shepard asked, still smiling.

"You're such an asshole."

"I'll take that as a no," he added, laughing softly. "So why are you really here?"

Jack picked up her apple core and threw it across the room. It was disintegrated in mid air by the sanitation bot. "I brought you something. It's in the fridge."

Shepard leaned in close and eyed her. "Didn't we have this talk? About the severed heads?"

Jack rolled her eyes. "Just look, will ya'? It might shut you up for two seconds."

Shepard approached the refrigerator warily. It wasn't his birthday and even if it were, Jack was unlikely to a) remember or b) give a shit, so a cake seemed unlikely. As he pulled open the door he was met only with the familiar and unexciting interior – there was an energy drink, some fruit, an abundance of protein and little else. Then something caught his eye, quite literally – it was silver and shimmering, with a metallic handle coloured like bone. Unsurprisingly, it was cold to the touch.

"You know, I was expecting something like a Predator. Maybe a Phalanx. I didn't think you were going antiques shopping."

Shepard lifted the firearm and looked down its sights. It was a cumbersome thing, a revolver with a long snout and a wide barrel. You didn't see guns like this anymore. Not outside of museums and old westerns. Whether it would tear through armour and kinetic barriers like modern firearms, well, Shepard was highly sceptical. However, at point blank range, with just a fine sheen of sweat between the gun and its target, it would do its job.

"You said get me a gun," Jack reiterated, picking at her nails nervously, although she wasn't entirely sure why it even mattered. "I got you a gun."

"That you did," Shepard replied, flicking his wrist, just as he'd seen done in the movies, and inspecting the fully loaded cylinder. "Did you take it for a spin?" he asked, teasingly. "Meet any little old ladies on the way over who looked at you funny?"

"No," she said rather haughtily, rising from the couch. "The only person _I _have the sudden urge to shoot is the guy with the gun. Figures, huh?"

Jack approached slowly and stood before him. It took him a moment to realise what she was doing and when he did he turned his neck and she immediately lifted his hair and began to fiddle with his biotic amp.

"She givin' you any trouble?" asked Jack.

"Well, it bled the other day. My ear, that is," he added, nonchalantly. "And every other night it hits me with these sudden, intense electric shocks. And then, of course, there's the constant headaches and light-headedness. Apart from _that_, though," he added, shrugging, "everything's _peachy_."

"You're such a baby, Shep'," she teased, "I saw the size of that piece of shrapnel they pulled outta' you. Thought after that you would have grown a pair."

Shepard rolled his eyes and pulled away. "And to answer your question," he added pre-emptively as he placed the gun on the kitchen counter, "_no_, Jack, there has been no change. Thanks for asking."

"You'll figure it out," she said, attempting to sound supportive, but she could hardly stomach the sound, "I've said it before, but… you're one hell of a biotic. Better than me. Better than any asari I've met. That shit doesn't just disappear."

Shepard's gaze was averted, drifting into space, and until he replied Jack thought that perhaps he wasn't listening. "But it _does_ take a vacation? Strange that."

"Aw, you need another pity party, Shepard?" she sneered. "So soon?"

Jack now was staring right at him, searching out his gaze, but his wide eyes were bleary. Unbeknownst to her, they had been since he entered the room. He was elsewhere. Still, he responded.

"You brought it up, Jack."

She was fast – faster than he anticipated. In barely the blink of an eye her hand lifted, her fingers clicking in his face and sending him crashing back down to Earth.

"What?" she asked urgently. "What is it? Why do you look stoned?"

"I told you, I'm just… distracted."

Jack scoffed. "That's just a word. One you keep using. What the hell's the matter?"

Shepard smiled and, eventually, began to quietly laugh. But even Jack, inexperienced as she was when it came to reading human emotions other than lust, anger and shame, knew it was not a happy laugh. It was dark. Darker than such a gesture ever ought to be. "You remember what I told you? How I thought I was going mad…"

Her brow lifted. "Yeah, _that_. How could I forget?"

"I _can't_ sleep," he blurted out suddenly, averting his gaze and allowing her to see only half of his worried and weary expression. "At all. I keep thinking – it's madness, but – I keep thinking all these terrible things. Like I died, and this is my own personal hell. Or that I _was_ indoctrinated by the Reapers after all. That they used me as a puppet to win this war whilst my mind was poisoned with… with… _this_," he suddenly shouted the word, causing Jack to flinch and watch wide-eyed as he gestured the area surrounding them.

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. "What's so bad about _this_? Yeah, things kinda' suck right now, but they've been worse. A lot worse."

"Have they?" he asked, not missing a beat. "I _do _miss her," he added, pre-emptively answering another question. "And I do fear the worst. I dream these awful, awful dreams about her too. Like she's buried, and she's waiting for me, and I'll never find her. I don't know the way. And you get it, don't you, Jack?" he asked, eyeing her closely. "Because that's the thing about growing up without a home. No one ever taught you the way back. So you know one path and one path alone. Forward. And you take it. No matter how much you want to go home, to go back, _you take it_."

"I–" Jack opened her mouth to respond but faltered almost immediately. And it hurt. It really fucking hurt. Every time he showed her a scar of his as deep as her own, it was like a sucker punch. There was no preparing for it, no sense as to why he would share when _she_ shared only the scars on her skin – but he did, and he wasn't afraid. Not of this, at least. "Yeah," she agreed finally. "I get it."

"So when I say I think I'm going mad," he continued, voice growing quiet, "you know it isn't a cry for help. And when you somehow contain you madness within one quiet room, like I did, you start to see clarity where there is none. You start to join the dots. I see possibilities, Jack. I mean," and he stopped mid-sentence, swallowing the lump in his throat, "I _look_ at death and I see possibilities. That sounds fucked up," he added, trailing off.

"Just a bit," she said mildly.

"And it is. But… not in that way. It's like; I want to find this person more than I want to stop him. If I had a choice between putting a bullet in his brain and asking him _why…_ then I would ask. Every. Single. Time. I would ask."

This all felt too familiar to Jack and what started as shivers soon began to make her skin crawl. It was not Shepard that disgusted her, nor what he had to say. It was the intimacy. The trust. The knowledge that he was falling into the abyss and had hold of her throat. She loved him like a brother, trusted him to a dangerous extent, but when he looked at her with those sad green eyes, when he spoke in that desperate, feeble tone, she wanted one thing and one thing alone. She wanted to run.

"_That_ room," he continued, pointing over her shoulder to a door on the far side of the room. "I can't stop thinking about it. I can't let go. I know that only madness awaits me…" he trailed and she made to reply, but the look in his eye, a look that went right through her, turned her tongue to lead. "…but it's my madness. And I want it."

For the first time since she'd arrived there, she noticed a key hanging around his neck, just below the scar on his throat that had always fascinated her.

"I can't help you, Shepard," she said quietly. "None of us can."

And when she looked at him, she saw something that for years had stared back at her in the mirror and taunted her. He was wounded. He was suffering in a way that was neither lethal nor benign. It knew when to ease up, and how not to kill him, and it knew too when to twist the blade, when he could take the punishment and endure.

There was a voice in her head screaming.

_Run_.

"I can't stop," he said, shaking his head.

"I know," she replied, reaching up and placing her hands either side of his neck. "And you won't. Not yet. The world needs you. She needs you…" Jack paused and prepared her tongue for a foul taste. "I need you." Her hand moved to his chest and gripped the key. "And I promise – I won't let the madness take you." With a short, sharp pull, the chain around his neck broke and the key was hers. Shepard said nothing. He _did_ nothing. She could feel his thunderous heartbeat reaching out to her, but the surface was eerily still.

Finally Jack surrendered to the voice screaming in her head. And she was gone.


End file.
